


A Painting of Ash

by decembersiris



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (TV 2000), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Blood, F/M, Gore, Love, Mystery, Tragedy, Violence, friendships, gothic themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13487673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decembersiris/pseuds/decembersiris
Summary: Enjolras, having no memory of his past, must escape the torments of his new reality. To do this, he must discover the truth that only he knows but has entirely forgotten.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not a typical Les Miserables story. It is a crossover from a dark video game that I dearly love. My dear Enjonine fans, please give this work a chance. Yes there are dark elements. Yes it may be difficult to understand. But keep reading. The answers will come at the end. This story is more about Enjolras discovering the truth than falling in love with Eponine but that does not mean there is no Enjonine content at all. Like I said, the answers come at the end. Please guys review my story. It's all I ask.
> 
> A big shoutout ot my lovely, wonderful beta, viridescentlights! I love you brodo, thank you for all your help! I could not have done this without you!

“Eight bullet wounds. Well, you’ve brought him to the right place.”

“You’re the only blood minister in this forsaken city. Save him.”

Enjolras could faintly hear the hushed, low voices from across the room. He lay in the dark, his vision blurring and fading in and out as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Candlelight dimly lit the room, and he slowly lifted his head to see the two shadowed figures in the corner. But as soon as he raised his head, his body twitched and tingled, a raw, hot, unbearable pain tore through him, and he winced, calling out in agony. His senses overwhelmed him, turning him into a writhing heap, wet and warm focused at the source of his pain. And yet, here as he lay in the dark, his memory failing him, an emptiness, he could not remember any moment of his life, not the circumstances that brought him here, nothing before, nothing save his own name.

One figure strode across the room, his boots clomping against the wood flooring, the man sure to keep out of the candlelight until he reached the door. He twisted the knob, the door creaked open, and he was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing and fading until he could no longer be heard. The other figure was much closer to Enjolras’s line of sight, a hulking mass. He heard squeaking as the man approached him, and as he came into the candlelight, Enjolras understood. The man, a minister of blood, was bound by a wheelchair.

“Ah you’re awake. Don’t struggle, son. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” The minister said, his hair long and unkempt just as his eyebrows and beard. Shadows were thrown across his face that created a sharp, eerie contrast, and Enjolras searched to find eyes within the dark cast upon his face.

“Where… What…” Enjolras’ rasped.

“Be still, boy. The bullets passed through cleanly. Lucky for you.” He grinned, a full smile of yellow teeth that was unpleasant rather than comforting.

Enjolras could feel himself fading, dizzy and disorientated, black spots behind his eyes that caused his head to ache. He rested his head back, surprised to feel a pillow beneath it, his eyes closing for only a moment. When he opened them again, a contraption hovered above him that his mind could not make sense of, except that fine-tipped needle at the end.

“Now, let’s begin the transfusion.” He slowly looked over at the minister at his side.

Enjolras swallowed, glancing between the minister and the needle.

“Ah, don’t you worry.” The minister said, catching his reaction. “Whatever happens, you may think it all a mere bad dream.”

Enjolras could feel himself slipping again much faster, colors blurring and darkening, his body tingling, turning cold, and as all he knew faded to black, he could hear a low, far-away chuckle.

~

A cool breeze swept over him, inviting the soft scents of fresh grass and dirt that slowly awoke his other senses. His eyelids were heavy as he opened them, moving his arms as he lifted his head, his hands touching grass and earth. He lay on his stomach, forcing his weakened muscles to work as he lifted himself up, blinking to clear away the fog in his vision.

He stood in the middle of a garden, rose bushes and sunflowers and all sorts of greenery, and a cobblestone path that led up to what appeared to be a building on a small hill above the garden. Enjolras sluggishly walked along the cobblestone towards the house, and along that path was a large gravestone, long vines growing on its edges, an engraving that was too faded and scratched away to read. Upon reaching the great wooden doors of the building, a sanctuary it seemed to be with its long, sloping rooftop and large windows, he pushed open the doors and entered.

Inside was a quaint library with a fireplace, a burgundy rug that encompassed the entire stone flooring, and thick, velvet maroon curtains hung over the windows. But it was not the library, the fireplace, the furniture that left him dumbfounded as he walked inside the warm room. Standing before him was a doll, a plain doll just as tall as him, in a velvet crimson dress and hair as black as crows’ feathers and just as soft. She smiled at him, her dark, unblinking eyes warm and inviting in the firelight, her white fingers—the joints black that held them and the rest of her body together—interlocked as she relaxed her hands at her stomach. She did not move, waiting patiently for him to approach her. Warily, he did.

“Welcome Good Hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you.” The joints at her mouth moved, her lips elegantly molded to make the gape that moved less frightening.

Startled by her voice, by this doll-come-to-life, Enjolras found it difficult to speak. So many questions and all he could utter was, “Dream?”

The Doll smiled, “This is a dream. And you are a hunter.”

“A hunter?”

“A hunter of beasts.” The Doll replied simply.

This is a dream, Enjolras thought. But it felt so real. He felt real. And the Doll… She lifted her hand—she looked just as real, as real as a doll can be—pointing to a large trunk, and Enjolras obeyed her silent command. Opening the trunk, he found weapons and vials, nothing his poor memory recognized. He glanced at the Doll.

“The saw cleaver.” Enjolras took it in his right hand, testing its weight as the Doll continued, “With its blood-letting teeth, it draws much blood from beasts. It transforms into a long cleaver, should you find it more suitable for you.”

Enjolras placed it at his side, eyeing the grotesque weapon, swallowing. I cannot be a hunter, he thought, wincing at the thought of such a weapon covered in blood. Looking back into the chest, he took out the only other weapon, a firearm.

“That pistol is specially crafted to employ quicksilver bullets, much more effective than regular bullets. Twenty are stored for you. Use them wisely, and be sure to search for more on your hunt,” said the Doll.

“What am I hunting for? Why must I do this?” Enjolras asked.

The Doll said nothing, and Enjolras grit his teeth, frowning. “How am I to trust your word if you cannot give me the answers I seek?”

“I do not have an answer for you. But you are a hunter, and a hunter must hunt. You shall find the answers you seek in the Waking World.” Her voice was soft and gentle, comforting, and Enjolras found himself drawn to them, drawn to this doll.

He beckoned to vials inside the trunk. “What’s this?”

“Blood.”

He looked back at her curiously. How could he need such a thing? What will blood do for him?

“You will need them on your hunt. They are essential to surviving the many horrors you will face. When you lose too much blood, inject one to heal your wounds and replenish your strength.”

Enjolras could feel his blood run cold, his stomach drop to the stone floor, and his heart slow all at once. He felt weak already, and no blood had been shed. “Will I die? Are you sending me to my death?”

The Doll, with her warm eyes and a tug at her lips, smiled. He could have mistaken her for human. “Dear Hunter, do not fear death. It can’t touch you here.”

Enjolras found little comfort in those words, but he did find himself trusting them. She, this doll that was so much more than plain, knows more than he could hope for. She does not hold all the answers though. He’d need to find them out there on his own.

He equipped all that was necessary, all that the Doll had given him, the saw cleaver at his back and the pistol, bullets, and vials hanging on the thick leather belt at his waist. Dressed in black trousers and a red waistcoat, he looked, as best as he could imagine, the hunter’s part. He wore gloves too that concealed underneath them blades to use in case he ever became detached from either cleaver or pistol. The Doll then led him out of the sanctuary, down the stone steps and to the tombstone. Just as they approached it, little creatures crawled out of the earth at the base of the large slab of stone, eyeless, bony little things with wide, gaping mouths. They turned their heads to look up at Enjolras.

“They are messengers,” the Doll said, her voice light, as if happy to see them. “Inhabitants of the dream. They find hunters like yourself, worship and serve them. Speak words, they do not. But still, they will guide you in the Waking World.”

Enjolras looked at her, his heartbeat quickening, “You won’t come with me?”

“I cannot leave this Hunter’s Dream. The messengers will do what I cannot,” the Doll replied solemnly. “You will hunt beasts. And I will be here for you. To embolden your sickly spirit.”

Enjolras nodded, turning back to the tombstone, his nerves threatening to take over. What awaited him in the Waking World? But he could not think on that now. A messenger had taken his hand, the frail creature seemed innocent, almost charming. It guided his hand to touch the tombstone, and the Hunter’s Dream blurred and faded, and he left the dream as black as he had entered it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could not do this without the lovely, wonderful, fantastic viridescentlights! Love you brodo, thank you for everything!

When Enjolras awoke, his body was weak and limbs stiff. Rising to his feet, he found himself in a jail cell, the bars’ thick black iron meant to prevent escape. But the lock on the door had been broken, the door creaking from the wind that came in through the barred window behind him. Outside, nothing could be heard but the wind, and Enjolras peered out the window as best he could to see how high up he was. Tilting his head, he found it difficult to gage but guessed around four stories up, too high for comfort.

Turning back to his opened cell door, he looked down at the pistol and saw cleaver in his hands. The pistol was loaded and managed to somehow hold all twenty bullets; he had little concerns of how to use the weapon, somehow finding it familiar to him. But the saw cleaver was something else entirely. The handle was long and curved slightly like a ‘s’. At the end of the handle was a gear that allowed the blade to transform from a short ranged weapon to a long ranged one. Practicing, Enjolras swung the cleaver, testing its weight and feel as the blade, and its row of sharp teeth sliced through the musky air in the prison. Then, by the force and strength of his arm, he transformed the blade as he thrashed it once, his strength forcing the gear into motion, and the blade extended out. He tested the long-range version too, the blade now double-edged, serrated on one side and sharp like a sword on the other. He flicked the cleaver back and forth, short to long, until he felt comfortable. 

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. A messenger had appeared from within the floor of the prison, its body fazed, passing seamlessly through the floor before him. The tiny creature’s gaping mouth formed a smile. Enjolras walked up to the messenger and knelt down before it. The messenger took hold of a piece paper that sat beside it on the floor, and it used all of its strength to lift the paper to him. Enjolras took the paper, a skeptical look on his face as he glanced between the messenger and the paper.

“Seek insight to transcend the hunt.” It read.

“What does this mean?” Enjolras muttered, and he looked at the messenger who said nothing. The simple thing cannot speak. Of course not, Enjolras thought. Nevertheless, Enjolras tucked the paper away into the deep pocket inside his coat.

He left his unguarded prison cell and followed the torches that lit his way. No other cells occupied the room he was in, a tower, by the looks of the staircase that winded down and down. Having nowhere else to go, he cautiously followed the staircase, his shoes echoing as they clomped against the stone steps, his mind vaguely remembering, as if he had always known of this place, as he made his way to the next floor. More cells were before him, a row on his left and a row on his right, and still the torches lit his way. He was wary as he made his way across the dungeon, peering into the cells, his heart hammering so loud he sore it echoed off the walls. As he approached the last sections of cells, he could feel the relief crawling through his veins, and just as he passed into the view, a body rushed at the bars, its longs limbs reaching out—to grip him or tear him to pieces where he stood, Enjolras did not care to know—but still, the banging and the body scared and surprised him. He huffed and panted, staring at the creature behind the bars as he tried to swallow his fear.

“Fear,” It croaked.

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, his eyes adjusting to the sharp contrast of orange light and deep darkness. The face of a man flicked in the light and in the shadows.

“Fear the blood,” the mad said.

Enjolras stepped forward, gripping his weapons tightly, unwilling to let his guard down. “What?”

“Do not go to that place. You seek it. But you don’t want to know its secrets. Don’t go. Fear the blood.”

Enjolras frowned, hesitant to take advice—if such ramblings could be consider as such—from a madman in rags behind a prison cell.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“Bastille.”

Enjolras knew that name, a reaction in his mind that turned his memory, molded it, and he knew where he was. “Paris,” he uttered, taking a step. But how could he have forgotten? What year was it? He remembered, 1832. But how could the Bastille still be standing? And with someone still inside?

And then that long hand managed to grab him, to pull him close, almost touching the iron bars. Startled and unable to bring himself to pull away, Enjolras could smell the breath of the man, and it made his stomach churn, bile threatening to move up his throat. It was a foul stench of rot, of decay, of a corpse. “The blood makes us human. Makes us more than human. Makes us human no more.”

And then the man let him go and slinked away back into the shadows of his cell, and Enjorlas stepped away, panting, turning from the stench though is eyes remained locked on the cell, waiting to see if the man would reappear. He could still hear the man muttering incoherently, a frantic whisper in the dark. Deciding it best not to linger, Enjolras continued down the prison, the dampness and smell of musk and dirt filled his nose, made him cringe at such a smell. He remembered reading the events that had taken place in this horrid prison, the revolution that led to the Bastille’s demise. This building, the symbol of monarchy’s dictatorial leadership, the King’s boot crushing the working class into the mud, ignited a rage Enjolras hadn’t forgotten. And in this dream, witnessing this prison with his own eyes, his rage grew and he sensed there was something he should know, remember, something that touched his heart much closer than the events in 1789. But it was just beyond his mind’s eye, unable to recall, a black empty hole in his memory that served nothing but to anger him further. Gritting his teeth, he pushed his frustration aside. He needed to focus on the task at hand, escape. He traveled down to ground level and could see through the barred windows to the courtyard alit by the torches. And across that courtyard was the gate that kept him from the rest of the city.

Groaning could be heard in the hall he stood, low moans that echoed off the walls as if a ghost were present. Upon scanning the hall, rows of cells and not much else, Enjolras prepared himself for whatever could come crawling out to greet him. He approached the only open cell, its door broken on its hinges and glanced inside to find another man, the jailer, laying face down on the stone floor.

“Help me,” the jailer breathed, whimpering. “Anyone. Please.”

Instinctively, Enjolras put away his weapons and went to the man, kneeling down before him. “Can you stand?” He asked.

“N—Not without help,” he replied.

Enjolras gathered him up gingerly, his arm wrapped around his back, as he lifted him to his feet. Slowly they made their way back into the hall, and in the light Enjolras could see how bloody the man truly was, a large gash on his forehead and a three gaping, bloody wounds at his abdomen. He had been stuck well and good, and Enjolras swallowed, knowing the man’s fate.

“What happened to you?” Enjolras asked.

“Monsters.” The man shut his eyes, wincing, his teeth lathered red. “M—Murderous fiends. They came without warning… Destroyed this place.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he looked back at the courtyard. He wanted to ask more, at least ask him his name, find some comfort in knowing that. But the jailer had no time for introductions and neither did he.

“T—T—Take me ou—out of here,” pleaded the jailer.

He did as the poor soul asked, and the two slowly made their way out of the prison and into the courtyard, a dusted barren slab of stone that stretched from the towering building to the iron barred gate. His blood pumped and pounded through him, the slow walk now seemed like a trek as anxiety wormed through his veins. Something could come for them. They were vulnerable out in the open like this, and the dying man at his arm was slowing him down. But Enjolras could not think of leaving him, the terrified, defenseless man. But something could come, and he won’t be ready for it, and not knowing what or when sparked a dread he knew he felt before. Was it death that terrified him so? He did not know, and that scared him.

Enjorlas could feel himself holding his breath, the man groaning at his side, tripping on his own feet as he struggled to keep up with him. Enjolras forced himself to be patient, to shove aside his anxiety. The Doll said he cannot be killed. He wished he could believe it. Dream or not, death is always certain.

They made it to the gate, and nothing had come, no monsters in the dark, no beasts, but Enjolras felt no relief.

“The keys.” The jailer’s voice was low. “Inside my… Coat pocket.”

Without hesitation, Enjolras opened the man’s coat, digging his hand into his pocket and pulled out a ring of many keys. He told him which key unlocked the gate, and Enjolras quickly shoved it into the lock on the door and listened as the key worked and the locked clicked open. Pushing open the door, the gate creaked and gave, signaling their freedom, and the pair walked out.  
They walked into the street, carriages overturned and rotting flesh of dead horses not too far away Trash and debris, bits of stone from what must be the buildings and piles of wood planks lined the streets. No people roamed out this late at night—who would want to if the streets looked like this?—but there was such a stillness that it made Enjolras uneasy.

“Jailer, what happened here?” He asked.

There was no answer, and Enjolras turned his head to look at him. On his arm was a corpse, a gray, shriveled husk of the man, as dry as the hair on his head. In terror and disgust, Enjolras dropped the body and stepped away, staring at its eyes and nose and lips that had been eaten away. Had he been carrying a corpse all this time? What happened to the man that had spoke to him only moments ago? He was still alive as Enjolras brought him through the gate! Looking back, Enjolras expected to see the Bastille still standing, but instead stood nothing but a pile of stone and rubble, wooden beams charred and smoking, nothing left of the towers and the prison. And yet, the oppression it represented did not leave his heart, and that was something Enjolras managed to not forget. He glanced back at the corpse, and a wind blew over him that carried the foul stench of smoke and death. And with that wind he could hear as clear as the night, a low, haunting laugh.

Enjolras did not like to linger for long, forcing himself forward, forcing himself not to question this dream, this “Waking World”, as the Doll had phrased it, as he found himself growing weary and his head aching. Still he pressed on, his weapons in his hands as he walked the street, guided by the light of the full moon. Red lanterns lit the windows and doors of the citizens’ homes and flats, the color of the light incredibly odd, but more so was the smell of burning sage that came from the lanterns. He pondered them curiously as he continued down the street. A little ways away, he could hear laughter and people’s voices coming inside one of the flats, its window guarded by a red lantern. He approached the window and knocked on it, hoping to gain someone’s attention from inside. Perhaps someone could help him. And then the voices hushed and shushed until quiet. Enjolras knocked again, watching as shadows flashed and stilled behind the window curtains.

“Leave us be! You’ve caused enough trouble as it is!” A woman shouted from behind the window.

“Trouble?” Enjolras repeated.

“You and your ilk destroyed the peace of this city,” the woman snapped. “Don’t try to play innocent with me.”

“Madame, please I don’t understand—“

“You’re a fool then,” she said. “A dead fool.”

And then the shadow in the window turned away, and all was quiet within the flat. Enjolras left the light of the window, and as he walked, the voices from inside rose again, laughter ensuing. Enjolras curled his hand into a fist, fighting off his anger. He continued on, further, deeper into the city, unsure of where he was headed. The streets he passed confused him, streets he knew never touched suddenly intersected, buildings and churches that never stood in this district of Paris now stood before him. His environment felt to him like a half-remembered dream. He closed his eyes, trying to remember all that he could of Paris, of home, and Enjolras could clarify nothing in his mind. He was in Paris, but Paris somehow had shaken itself, shuffled its streets and buildings as if to further confuse him.

Enjolras could not push aside his confusion. He hoped for answers from the citizens so neatly tucked away in their homes. He knocked on doors and windows with the red lanterns, and the few that answered him mocked him, blamed him for whatever madness he had entered, and sent him away. One lantern though, after knocking on the window, held within the walls of the house a woman who could not speak and only wept. No one would answer to him, leaving him to question all that had happened in this Paris, what it was that left them so angry, so terrified.

As he came to the corner of the street, his body tired and mind slow, clasping his weapons with more effort than before, he could hear coughing coming from the side of the house. Another red lantern, Enjolras thought as he approached the window, white curtains covering the inside of the glass. He thought best leaving it and whoever was inside as no one else in the city bothered to help him.

“Oh, are you a hunter?” Came a male voice.

Enjolras stopped, surprised to hear a friendly tone. He looked back and went to the window. “I am.” He said.

“I’m Jehan.”The shadowed figure at the window coughed.

“I’m Enjolras.”

“Well, fellow hunter, I’m sure the Parisians here have offered you very little help.”

“They have offered none to say the least,” Enjolras replied.

“Cowards, the lot of them. You must have had a fine time of it. Incense in the lanterns keeps beasts at bay, but even that runs out. Once a hunter offers aid, they would rather cast blame.” Jehan scoffed and then paused. “I cannot stand if I wanted to, but I’m willing to help if there is anything that can be done.”

Enjolras, relieved to finally receive the help he so desperately sought, found himself at a loss for words. He had so much to ask, but his mind could not think of what to start with.

He finally said, “What’s happened here?”

Jehan coughed in return. “This city is cursed. Paris is not like you remember. Whatever your reasons might be, you should plan a swift exit. Whatever can be gained from this place, it will do more harm than good.”

He was quiet for a while, and Enjolras felt himself growing anxious, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for his voice again.

“Shortly after the failed revolution, after the last barricade fell at the Musain, people grew sicker, more so than the normal rate. And those who fell to illness became beasts. The poor fell first. But the plague is not bound to social classes. Not much else is known as to why we’re suffering such a fate. It just is,” Jehan coughed again harshly. “The government has abandoned us. Blocked us off from the rest of the world. We haven’t received aid, and I doubt that we ever will. Those who managed to avoid sickness have become hunters. But out in the streets, I do not know how long that will last until they too are afflicted.”

Enjolras thought over Jehan’s words, attempting to piece together such a fragmented story. And then he thought of the Bastille, his skin crawling at the memory. “I was told ‘fear the blood’. Have you heard such a phrase?”

“I can’t say that I have,” he rasped. “But if its blood you’re interested in, you should seek out the good doctor at the clinic, if he’s still alive. The clinic controls all knowledge of blood ministration. Across the Seine, on the eastern side of the city you’ll find the clinic, that is, if your memory does not fail you.”

“My memory?”

Jehan wheezed again, coughing fiercely and retching. He managed to choke out a feeble “good luck, my friend”, and Enjolras stepped away from the window. He wanted to help him, perhaps offer some form of aid. But he had nothing to give. His heart grew heavy, a looming fear that Jehan’s time was running out.

Turning the corner, in the middle of the street not too far from Jehan’s house, was a solitary lantern. It seemed to have sprouted from the cracks within the ground, and messengers rose around it, basking in its faint white glow. Enjolras approached the lantern and knelt down to the messengers. They smiled at him, the odd little creatures. And then one took his hand and pulled him in to touch the lantern. And the world blurred and faded, just as it did when he entered the Waking World.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to shadows-of-1832! Thank you sweetie, your reviews are wonderful. I love you for them. You keep me from getting discouraged, thank you so much.

When his vision cleared, he found himself back in the Hunter’s Dream. He stood on the cobblestone path just beside the tombstone, the garden and the roses and the sunflowers rustling in his presence. And the through the mist Enjolras could see the Doll smiling at him.

“How goes the hunt, Good Hunter?” She asked.

“I’ve yet to begin.” Enjolras said as he sheathed his firearm and latched the saw cleaver to his belt at the hip.

“Then you’ve discovered the usefulness of the lantern.”

He nodded, glancing at the headstone, spotting the words that read “Central Paris” that had suddenly appeared on the stone.

“I’m grateful to know I can return here.” He said, looking back at her.

“We are untouched by the Waking World.” The Doll approached him, and Enjolras found himself eased by her voice. “But you mustn’t stay for long. You are needed there.”

His finger twitched and he touched his neck as he stared at her. His lips parted as he took a step towards her, his mind fogged by questions, by uncertainty. His tongue pressed against his teeth, and Enjolras hoped she would catch the earnest in his eyes. But she said nothing to him, her eyes unwavering as she stared at him, and he was compelled to speak.

“I saw things,” Enjolras began, “Things I can’t understand. And I remember—I remember Paris. I was back in Paris, but not my Paris.”

“Such is the nature of the Waking World,” replied the Doll. “A half remembered dream. Return and hunt and you shall be granted insight.”

“What insight?” Enjolras asked, remembering the note the messenger had given him. “What knowledge shall I discover?”

The Doll said nothing, and Enjolras knew she could not answer him. His jaw clenched, sighing as he tried to calm his frustration before making his way up the steps and into the sanctuary. He went to the chest and stored inside the note he had found. He eyed the words on the note, a hand written scrawl with no signature. He closed the trunk before returning to the garden. He could feel the Doll’s eyes on his as he walked down the steps and to the tombstone. He touched the stone, the words “Central Paris” without looking back at her.

Enjolras returned to the Waking World and headed down the street, his mind vaguely remembering the buildings and street names he passed, accepting their location although he remembered them in other places, too exhausted to continue questioning. The streets were quiet, the moon had not left its place in the sky, and the stench in the air grew fouler the longer he walked. And as he went, he had no sense of time, no way to know how long he had been walking. It could have been minutes or hours, and he did not know. Soon enough to his relief, he could see a ways down the street a lone man, his back to him and a torch in his hand. He was walking rather slowly, dragging his feet. Perhaps he needed help.

“Monsieur?” Enjolras called out as he made his way to him. 

The man slowly turned, his face covered with a thick beard and unruly gray hair, his skin pale even in the glow of the dancing flame of the torch. A butcher’s knife was in the man’s right hand, Enjolras saw, and he felt a chill crawl up his spine. Without warning, the man charged at him, crying out, “Help me! Oh God, help me!” His large knife was raised, and Enjolras’s heart raced in a panic as he scrambled to grab his saw cleaver. And before he could unlatch the cleaver the man was in front of him and he swung. The butcher’s knife snuck deep into Enjolras’s shoulder, carving down diagonally through flesh, muscle, bone, and Enjolras staggered, his mind unable to react to the immense pain as blood spewed from his wound and spat out of his mouth. He hissed out a groan, his vision blurring has he felt himself begin to blur. Staring up at him, feeling the knife tear from his body, Enjolras could see the yellow of the man’s eyes, the veins in his face protruding from his skin. “Beast,” Enjolras thought, and he fell to the ground, his eyes to the moon as his vision turned to black.

Enjolras awakened, wheezing and choking for air, his eyes rolling back as he was overcome with searing pain. On the ground, he stiffened and rolled onto his side, panting from the heat of the pain. He was unable to scream his agony, the pain itself stealing all thought and air from his lungs. And as he laid there, the scent of grass and earth in his nose, he found the pain slowly ebbing, the air returning to grace his burning lungs, and he was able to move. The pain vanished and left him with a tingling where he had been originally cut, and then that tingling too faded to nothing. Sitting up to rest on his hands and knees, he was no longer bleeding, and there was no wound. He hung his head, staring down at his hands in his lap and shuddered, remembering the pain. He bit his lip, curling his hands into fists, the leather gloves creaking in response to his clenched fingers, his eyes stinging.

“Good Hunter.”

Enjolras looked up to see the Doll crouched before him, her eyes cast down on his in concern and grief. He trembled. He fumbled over himself and gripped at the velvet skirt of her dress, curling his fingers about the fabric by the fistfuls. He wept, unable to control himself, and the Doll sat silently as she stared at him. Moments passed and Enjolras relinquished his hold on the Doll, and she stood erect as he remained on the ground.

“You told me I can’t die,” Enjolras muttered.

“You can’t.” The Doll’s voice was low and gentle.

He glanced up at her, his lips parted but no words left him. Sitting back on his knees, he looked back down at his hands in his lap. He understood.

“To escape this dreadful Hunter’s Dream, halt the source of spreading scourge of beasts, lest the night carry on forever.”

Enjolras stared back up at the Doll whose kind eyes stared back. He sat, staring at nothing as his mind fully began to realize the position he was in, the nature of his existence. And yet there was still a hope, that he could free himself. But could he manage killing and facing death time and time again? He had no other choice. He stood to his feet, the weakness in his bones replaced by strength and hope of escape. But only if he continued the hunt. With nothing to say, he nodded a feeble goodbye to the Doll, and she smiled at him as he turned to the gravestone, the dream fading.

“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the Waking World.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right guys, this chapter is darker, more gruesome than the last. So be prepared. Please don't let that deter you from reading, but if you are of the squeamish type, then this probably isn't the story for you. For those of you that are into the dark and the gruesome and the gothic, please enjoy, like, and comment!

Enjolras stood to his feet, his saw cleaver and firearm in his hand. The moon in the sky had not moved above Paris, the night carrying on and time stopped by broken hands. His brow furrowed, his hands clenched tight about his weapons as he followed the street back to where he had died. The man that murdered him, the beast, was nowhere in sight, but red, wet blood, his blood, still stained the street. Enjolras glared at the blood, at the reminder of the pain he had endured. Enjolras pressed forward, an aggravation, an anger swelling within him that prompted such determination to never succumb to such fate again. He’ll kill to never die again.

Tucked behind an overturned carriage, a man emerged with a roar, “Die!” The man was just as unruly, just as bloodthirsty as the one who had killed him, swinging his axe. Enjolras dodged his attack and swung his cleaver, its teeth cutting into flesh. The man groaned before falling at Enjolras’s feet. He stared down at the corpse, the yellow eyes of a beast wide open, jaw slacked, human blood pouring from a human body with a beast’s mind. And the man was dressed in hunters’ garb.

Enjolras continued cautiously through the city, slaying beasts that crossed him as humanity shut itself in homes guarded by lanterns. People inside those homes sought sanctuary, protection. Innocents were doomed to die if the lanterns failed them, if the night went on too long, and Enjolras could not shake the guilt that festered or the unwavering desire to help. He approached the homes marked by red with the intention to protect innocent citizens. However he was only met with curt, bitter rejections that sent him back into the shadows of the night.

He dipped in and out of alleyways, following the guidance of the messengers that appeared here and there to lead the way. He then came to an open street where a mob of men stood in front of a bonfire. They held a variety of weapons ranging from batons to pitchforks, knives to short swords. The yellow-eyed men, beasts in hunters’ clothing lit their torches from the bonfire and began to disperse. Four remained circled around the fire while one with a rifle stood on a broken carriage to keep watch. Another group of four walked left, down the street and turned the corner, the glow of their torches flickering as they went. Two more on both sides of the street for a total of four patrolled the area. Enjolras watched them, his heartbeat thudding in his chest with the sudden fear of death. A messenger tugged at the ankle of Enjolras’s trousers, pointing past the mob and the fire to the barred gate ahead, and Enjolras detested the task of having to fight so many men and risk death just to get to his destination. He was grateful to see, at least, that the gate was open enough for him to squeeze through. Deciding it best to avoid confrontation, he scoped the area, looking for places to hide in order to fight as few of the beasts as possible. If he planned it correctly, he wouldn’t have to fight at all. But the watchman atop the carriage concerned him. He could shoot sentry and get rid of that extra pair of eyes, but he feared the noise would draw attention to himself.

He opted for stealth and kept to the shadows, as deep as he could so that he was pressed against the wall. He looked back at those at the bonfire; none had taken notice of him, but that brought him little comfort. Ahead of him the two pairs on patrol had joined together, stopping directly in front of the gate. Enjolras inwardly cursed, gritting his teeth, his heart pounding, blood pumping in anticipation. In the dark, tightening his hold on his cleaver, he approached the four, swinging and slicing the closest beast, and he collapsed to his knees.

“Fiend!” cried out one, and the three standing charged at him, raising their weapons.

Enjolras stepped back, fear coursing through him as he struggled to dodge their attacks.

“Beast, beast! Kill him!” called a low, gruff voice.

And Enjolras heard roaring behind him. He did not need to look to know he had been caught by the others. He swore to himself, swinging at another beast, cutting at his abdomen, and as he dragged the cleaver through the beast’s body, his entrails out in a bloody display, another beast stabbed Enjolras’s side with a pitchfork. Enjolras screamed, terrified from the pain, horrified at the thought of dying again. He heard gunfire then, and the bullet pierced his arm. He yelled out, eyes wide and for a moment, he forgot to move. “No,” he thought. He was so close, the gate just beyond last two beasts. And seeing no other choice, he ran, pushing past the beasts that blocked his way. He ran despite his injuries, despite the beasts that pursued him. Gunfire rang out, ricocheting off the ground, sparks flying mere inches beside him. His heart was in his ears as he held his side, his other hand clasping the cold iron bar of the gate. Adrenaline sent him into a panic, the beasts so close behind him, their weapons raced, ready to taste his blood. He stepped over the low iron bar that poorly latched the barred gate together, squeezing between the vertical bars that attempted to impede his escape. Gunfire again and the beasts were at his heels, swinging their weapons and torches at him. And as he shuffled his way through, lifting his foot over the bar, his entire body just on the opposite side, the beasts smacked against the gate with a clang. They clamored for him behind the bars, roaring and calling out in frustration.

Enjolras breathed out in relief, smiling lightly at his victory, but before he could feel safe and secure, the bang of the rifle echoed out, and the bullet passed through his shoulder. The force of it threw him to the ground. He yelped out in pain, his vision blurring, the pain stealing all breath. The calls of the beasts behind him suddenly sounded far away, and all Enjolras could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He forced himself to move, dragging himself as far away as he could from the beasts that clawed at him through the gate. The watchman could shoot him again, and it would mean his death. He dragged himself to the wall of a building, tucking himself behind a large, thick plank of wood. He could feel blood soaking his clothes, pooling beneath him, his body growing weaker, colder. The watchman fired again, the bullet splintering the wood beside his right arm.

He looked up to see if the plank would hold, and Enjolras saw that the wood was in fact a large, adult sized coffin. He sucked in a breath, hissing as he did to keep from panicking again, but he could feel the blood bubbling up his throat, his vision growing darker. He was running out of time. He then remembered the Doll’s words and quickly reached for the blood vials latched to his belt. He grabbed one and plunged the needle into his thigh, injecting the blood into his veins. With the blood vial depleted, he threw it aside, and within an instance warmth enveloped him. He watched as the blood ceased to flow from the deep gash on his arm, and that gash became a cut and that cut scabbed and flaked away to dust. There was no more pain, no more blood at his throat, his wounds healed and energy resorted. Enjolras panted, his breathing becoming nearly hysterical in his relief and excitement. But the gunfire returned him to his senses, and he stood to his feet, darting for the nearest alleyway. He returned to the shadows, out of sight from the beasts.

Enjolras smiled as he pressed himself against the wall, his limbs shaking, struggling to control himself as the adrenaline continued to course through him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He then felt the tugging at his trousers again, the messengers at his feet, beckoning him to walk. He did so, walking deeper into the alley that led him to a house, its door open wide. No lanterns hung, and so he entered with caution. The house was poorly lit by candlelight, and much to his relief there were no beasts. However, the condition it was left in was startling. Papers and books were scattered and torn all over the floor, tables overturned, and chairs broken. Blood was strewn across the floor that led out the door at the opposite end of the house. Four lines long were scratched into the wood floor and walls. Enjolras stared at the lines, the claw marks, wondering what could have created such long, deep grooves into the wood.

He followed the marks that led him up the stairs which creaked under him, groaning in protest against his weight, finding the condition of the second floor no better than the first. The smell was nearly enough to send Enjolras away, the horrid stench of blood and rotting flesh turned his stomach. Upon walking in, he noticed the claw marks that covered the floor, furniture, and walls of the master bedroom. Blood soaked the bed, feathers and stuffing shredded and torn out of it to cover the floor. At the corner of the room, Enjolras could see another splatter of blood on the wall and wardrobe. He walked closer and found that between the wall and wardrobe was the body of a man tucked into the corner, his eyes open and vacant, his abdomen opened, his insides on the outside. Enjolras swallowed, turning away to look towards the bed. And there he found a woman who he assumed to be the man’s wife. She was in the same state as the man, deep lacerations to reveal her bones, her organs visible through the gashes at her stomach. Poor innocents of such a terrible fate. But Enjolras could not mourn these strangers. They succumbed to the same fate as the rest of the fallen citizens, and he could do nothing for them now.

He walked back down stairs, and the light of the messengers stole his attention. Across the room, the white little creature lifted another note for him. He approached the messenger, took it, and read it under the glow of the candles.

“Blood ministration began in London, and still it seeks to spread its web.”

Enjolras frowned. What was the significance of blood and ministration, he wondered, and the lack of any substantial conclusion to his question bothered him. Nevertheless he pocketed the note and looked back at the blood stains on floor. Gripping his cleaver, he followed the blood out of the door that led him outside.

The blood led him not too far from the house to the body of a child, a young girl no older than ten. He could imagine the terror that must have been on her face before she died, the poor child stripped of the comfort of her parents who were tucked away in their bedroom. He felt his resolve weakening, pity seeping into his heart. He thought to take her back to her parents. But then he heard a cry of a woman, and he could not think of the little girl any longer. He ran to the sound of the cries, fearing the worst, that he’d arrive too late, and she’d be dead before he could reach her.

The screams led him down the street that was flanked on both sides by tall, looming buildings. He turned the corner, and to his surprise, standing before him was the Hȏtel National des Invalides, much grander than he had remembered the building. The street ended at the building’s steps and just before the steps, beneath the trees, a man held the throat of a young woman. The man lifted her up by the throat, choking her, her feet dangled uselessly beneath her. She clasped the hand that held her, incapable now of the tiniest of sounds, powerless to scream.

“I can’t let you do it,” the man’s voice quivered. “I—I can’t let you. You reek. You’re sick, you’ll infect me! I won’t become like them.”

“Stop!” Enjolras called out, running as fast as he could to reach them.

The man lifted his weapon, a longer, thinner saw cleaver. It was serrated on both sides, and the blade came to a long, sharp point much like a spear. The man then thrust the saw spear into the woman’s abdomen, and all she could do was grunt. Enjolras felt his stomach drop, his eyes widen in fear, his adrenaline spiking as if aware of his failure. The man pulled the blade from her body, a squelching sound reaching Enjolras’s ears as the man dropped her. She lay motionless on the ground, her green eyes open to the unforgiving moonlight, blood flooding from her, reddening her fair skin.

“Beasts all over the city.” The man said, swinging his spear to rid the excess blood. 

He was only twenty feet away, his saw spear extended out, the entirety of the weapon longer than his body. Enjolras gripped his cleaver and pistol as they faced each other, and he could see yellow eyes behind the man’s spectacles. 

The man hissed, “You’ll be one, sooner or later.”

The wind blew, sending a chill that clawed down Enjolras’s spine. The man then charged at him, quickly closing the gap, and Enjolras’s heart leapt to his throat. The man swung, the spear longer, heavier, than Enjolras’s cleaver, and more difficult to calculate, and it nearly sliced Enjolras in half had he not jumped back and out of the way. His adrenaline spiked, rushing through him as fear tightened his muscles and frazzled his mind. He raised his pistol, his arm shaking, and he shot, sparks spitting from the barrel as the bullet flew. It struck his opponent in the chest, and Enjolras expected him to collapse, the battle over. But instead the man grunted, staggered, and hunkered over, blood seeping from the wound, and his eyes flashed even yellower as he touched the red oozing from the hole. He curled his body up to glare back at Enjolras, pointing his spear at him, and Enjolras clutched his weapons tighter.

The man charged again, and Enjolras prepared himself for his attack, dodging as he swung. But instead of only one heavy swing, the man swung again and again, horizontally, vertically, and horizontally again, and Enjolras panicked and stumbled, tripping on his own feet. The spear sliced open Enjolras’s side at his ribs, and the sheer force and strength of the swing sent him flying. Enjolras landed, smashing against the stone ground, pain ripping through his body and blood flooding from him, staining the ground, his clothes, and his hand as he pressed against the wound. His face contorted in such agony, his chest heaving rapidly, hissing as he panicked, his blood warm on his numbing fingers. Death’s footsteps clomped against the bloodied ground, and Enjolras did not look back as he struggled to drag himself away. And then the blade tore through flesh and bone, and Enjolras, unable to scream, groaned out softly, his mouth open and blood spitting from it. The pain broke him, until he felt nothing, not even the pull of the spear as it was removed from his body, his vision turning to black as he expired.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another graphic chapter. It isn't as gorey as previous ones, but it is still a bloody fight. Fair warning. If you don't like it, that's fine. You can always read more wholesome stuff. But for those who don't shy away so easily, please give this a chance and review. Thank you.

Enjolras jolted as he awoke, screaming out in dread as searing, fiery pain tore through him at his back and through to his chest. He huffed and panicked, touching the spot that burned his chest, looking for a wound that was not there. He breathed through his nostrils as he attempted to calm himself. He was not dead, unhurt, in fact. He knew this, and the pain faded. Blood no longer soaked his clothes, and any holes in his attire were mended as if all was well, and he could start again. His body tingled with relief that left him weak. He struggled to rise, looking about the gardens of the Hunter’s Dream. Death had brought him back again, and he grew more relaxed at the sight of the Doll standing by that same large headstone. He took steps toward her, and as he walked, his head began to burn as his chest had. His eyes widened in sudden fear as the throbbing and the burning, far greater than any other pain, ran through his skull, rendering him motionless. He thought then that this pain would kill him too, and he remembered the fight he had just had with the man with the spectacles. 

He remembered that face of a dear friend, the name he owned in a time that seemed so far away. “Joly,” Enjolras thought. He remembered that genius, that hypochondriac, that dear friend. He remembered Joly’s loyalty to him and the rest of his friends that were once called Les Amis. Enjolras remembered a Paris under a tyrannical monarch, and the revolution he was so eager to insight. He could see as clear as day the morning of the funeral of General Lamarque and the battle that ensued that terrible day, the barricade that was built, the lives that were lost. But what of his fate and the rest of Les Amis? Had they survived? He found himself questioning his entire reality, this Hunter’s Dream, the Doll, the Waking World and those who lived in it.

“You remember now, don’t you Good Hunter,” the Plain Doll said.

The burning of his mind faded with her voice, and Enjolras staggered, lifting his hand to touch his temple. “I… I remember.” He found himself growing weaker, his knees threatening to give out, but he forced himself to stand, keeping his eyes on the Doll. “Everything. I remember everything.”

“Do you?” The Doll returned.

Enjolras, feeling his strength slowly returning, frowned in contemplation. The thought possibly being wrong, of truly forgetting something so important about him—he didn’t want to consider it. “I must,” he said, swallowing.

Her eyes, Enjolras could see, were laden with sorrow. “Then you know what you must do.”

He felt the blood drain from his face, his skin crawling, his bones freezing over at the dreaded thought.

“No. Please.” He pleaded, “Surely there is something else to be done!”

Her eyes were his answer, dark eyes filled with grief and regret. “A hunter must hunt beasts. Only then will you be granted insight.”

Enjolras’s brow creased and he stared down at his feet, curling his hands tighter about his weapons. He knew what was to be done, but the task made him sick.

“How can I kill my friend?” Enjolras asked, looking back at her. “He’s my loyal comrade. He trusts me with his life. I cannot betray him. Perhaps there is something I can do, something I can say and he’ll remember me too!”

She stepped towards him, her eyes fixed on his, and he thought she would touch him, but such gentleness was unlike her.

“Your friend is not bound to the Waking World. Your friend is of Paris. Of your Paris. The Waking World is ruled by beasts, not humans. The messengers guide me just as they do you, and they have told me. That beast is not your Joly.”

Enjolras stared at her and then the headstone, his jaw clenching.

The Doll’s expression lightened and mixed with both sadness and encouragement, “Free him from his torment and yourself with him.”

Enjolras shut his eyes, biting the inside of his lip. He breathed out a deep sigh before opening them and approached the headstone. His heart in his ears, he touched the stone and returned to the Waking World.

~

Enjolras ran through Paris, following the same path he took to get to Joly. For the time being, he avoided as much unnecessary conflict as possibly, and when he approached the mob that had not moved from the bonfire, he took much care to avoid detection. He squeezed passed the gate but not without avoiding complete detection. The sentry upon the carriage spotted him before he could make it through and fired, the gunshot startling him so, his heart jumping up to his throat. The bullet hit his thigh, and Enjolras grunted out and held his breath as he squeezed through the gate before the rest of the mob could reach him. He staggered, holding the wound as he ran for the corner of the alley. He puffed and sighed, relieved to have made it, and without hesitation he plunged a blood vial into his thigh, watching as the bullet emerged from his skin. It was forced out completely along with the bits of shrapnel, and the wound healed.

Continuing on, Enjolras entered and exited the bloodied house and passed the body of the little girl. He returned to the Hȏtel National des Invalides and found Joly in his bloodied, faded, tattered clothes standing over the same woman’s body. Joly huffed and panted like that of a dog and upon hearing him, turned to face him.

“Joly, it’s me.” Enjolras entreated.

Joly made no notion of recognition as he raised his saw spear, quickening his footsteps.

“Joly, please.” Enjolras’s body tingled, adrenaline fueling his veins and muscles all the while his heart began to break.

The fight began anew. Enjorlas was careful to dodge Joly’s continues attacks, avoiding the long reach of the spear, waiting for an opening. Though his swings took time, Joly was quick to continue his swipes. But they left him vulnerable, Enjolras saw, for Joly’s stamina could not keep up after five hard swings. Timing himself, Enjolras kept out of Joly’s reach, waiting for the five passes of the spear, and he then fired. Joly’s yellow eyes widened and flashed as the bullet passed through his chest. He staggered just as before, and instead of hesitating as before, Enjolras ran up to him, swinging his cleaver, slicing opening his friend’s chest. Blood was torn from him, soaking his clothes and Joly’s, and Joly stepped back, growling in fury as he struggled to avoid Enjolras’s adamant cuts into his flesh.

“Ahh!” Joly screamed out, falling to his knees.

Enjolras stepped back from him, panting as his lungs burned for oxygen, his muscles aching for reprieve. 

“Joly. Joly, it’s Enjolras.” He tried again. “You must remember me. I don’t want to hurt you! Come back, my friend.”

His heart hammered furiously in his chest, and he waited as Joly pressed his hand to the large gash at his breastbone. Enjolras could hear low growling, low enough that it only seemed to carry with the wind. And then Joly looked up at him, his spectacles dropping by the irate turn of his head. He stood, relinquishing his spear and held his sides as his growls grew louder. And before Enjolras could breathe, before he found the time dodge the attack, Joly rushed at him. 

The man’s arms were no longer clothed but covered in thick, long black fur, the sleeves having been torn away. His hands too were covered by that fur, and his fingers had become claws like knives. He swung his arms at him, and Enjolras received deep, long cuts across his abdomen. Enjolras groaned, stepping back to attempt to avoid Joly’s ferocious attacks, but Joly was relentless. He carved Enjolras down from his left collarbone to the right of his ribcage, and in his pain and panic, Enjolras swung his cleaver, cutting Joly’s furred arm. The beast stepped back and went to rush him again, and he quickly lifted his pistol and shot him. Wherever the bullet pierced, it was enough to get him to stagger, and Enjolras went for a blood vial, plunging it into his thigh.

His wounds were healing, his muscles strengthening, his breathing more eased and regular. But Enjolras could not feel relieved. Joly was running for him. Standing on the balls of his feet, he held his breath, and rolled underneath Joly’s arm as he rose to cut him with his claws. Enjolras quickly regained himself and swung at the beast’s back, relentlessly attacking him from behind, blood splattering from him. Joly screamed, and Enjolras did not take any chances, digging his cleaver into his friend’s body, tearing flesh from bone, clumps of skin and muscle ripping from him and smacking against the ground. And then Joly’s screams stopped, and Enjolras watched as his friend collapsed, face down to the ground.

Enjolras heaved, frantically breathing for air as he stood over the body. His limbs shook, and Enjolras looked down at his friend in a beast’s body. He shuddered, memories of his dear Joly, the man who plotted and planned the revolution alongside him, the man who pledge such loyalty, such kinship to him out of the love of his heart.

Enjolras sniffed and gritted his teeth as he stared down at Joly’s mangled corpse. He closed his eyes, sighing. Beast, he reminded himself. That beast was not his Joly. He opened them again, a light catching his eye. A lantern grew from the ground, cracking open the stone ground to make room for itself, and messengers crowded around it. Enjolras glanced at the body and then back at the lantern. He then turned and walked towards the lantern, unable to look back as he knelt down to touch its ethereal light.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brutal and yet the plot thickens. Enjoy!

Within the Hunter’s Dream, the separate plain of existence where no harm could come to him, his safe haven, Enjolras told the Doll what had transpired. He thought his bitter confession would unburden his heavy heart, but it did not, and he was left feeling harrowing emptiness, guilt, and sorrow. She was saddened for him, her dark, russet eyes glassed over as if she would weep. He stared at her, hoping for some consolation.

“Does Jehan know of this?” She asked.

Enjolras bristled. He had been so wrapped up in Joly, he had forgotten of Jehan, sick in the prison of his own body. “I’ll speak with him.”

From the headstone, Enjolras noticed the new words that appeared below “Central Paris”, “Hȏtel National des Invalides”, where he had fought Joly and a new lantern had sprouted. He sighed, his body suddenly so very heavy and touched “Central Paris” and returned to the Waking World.

“Jehan, my friend.” Enjolras said as he briskly jogged to the window, his gloved hands gripping the bars that separated him from the glass. For moments he could hear nothing, and Enjolras found himself panicking, eyeing the red lantern filled with incense, his nostrils flaring at the smell it emitted.

And then he heard Jehan’s coughing followed by faint wheezing and relief washed over Enjolras.

“You remember then?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replied slowly. “How could I have forgotten? Mon ami, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t… Don’t a—apologize for the state of y—your wearied mind.” Jehan returned slowly, words seemingly becoming more difficult, and Enjolras knew it.

He sighed, “Jehan, I must tell you. I found Joly.”

“Ah, Joly! Last I heard… He had gone hunting.”

Enjolras let go of the bars, his hands hanging uselessly at his side. “He was a beast. He tried to kill me.”

Jehan was quiet behind the window, save for his labored breathing. It grew heavier as the silence between them thickened, and Enjolras swallowed, his heart pounding, waiting with baited breath for him to speak. Jehan then coughed again harshly.

“You did what was necessary.”

Enjolras grit his teeth, feeling no less guilty, feeling no less angry at himself and the world that had doomed him and those he loved. But what more could he do? So he hissed out a frustrated sigh, his insides burning with the rage that stirred within him. But then the rage dimmed, and fear took its place.

“Tell me, Jehan. Is there anything that I can give you, anything to at least slow your sickness?”

His breathing was labored, heavy, and then he gave in and coughed. “No, my friend. Besides… Y—You have more pressing matters to at—attend to.”

“Jehan, I cannot let you die—“

“You needn’t concern yourself with me. What’s… Afflicted me is incurable, but—” He wheezed, searching for the energy to speak. “… Blood gave me hope. I-It gave me time, and I’ve been most fortunate to be unharmed… By the plague of beasts.” He paused, wheezing as he struggled to keep from coughing. “I can even die human.”

Enjolras’s heart slowed as fear turned to grief that festered and rotted the beating organ. He knew he could not prevent his friend’s death, and he should feel relieved to know that his death will be more peaceful than becoming a fated beast. But dear Jehan was fated to die nonetheless, and there is nothing for Enjolras to do. His body turned cold, and he could not find his feet. His head quietly ached as his heart did. Two deaths on his hands, and one has yet to close his eyes. His mind lingered, unable to remove himself from the window, from the friend he could not see, could not comfort.

“Go, Chief. Don’t you wo-worry about me.” Jehan’s voice lightened, “You have work to do.”

He heard Jehan’s words. He heard them and hated them. It assured his uselessness, his helplessness. He could do nothing, and they both knew it. He stood at the window, staring into the white curtains, listening to Jehan’s labored breathing and sharp coughs that came. His feet were laden with brick, and he found it nearly impossible to remove himself from the window. But he did so nonetheless, mourning his friend as he went. 

He walked through Paris, careful of his surroundings, killing the few beasts that managed to cross him and avoiding those he could not, and returned to the Hȏtel National des Invalides. There, he walked past Joly’s body, his stomach boiling and poisoning the blood that rushed through his veins. He glared at the body, at the black fur at his arms and the claws that extended from his hands. Gripping his saw cleaver, he approached the body and knelt down, staring at the inhuman arms attached to his friend. He did not dare touch them and instead lifted his cleaver above his head. He swung down, listening as the blade sliced and crunched, biting flesh and breaking bone. He hacked away at the arm, cutting through the socket, blood squelching with each slice of the blade until it finally gave way. He kicked away the offending limb, watching the blood that seeped from the arm and socket. He did the same with the other arm, growling out his frustration, his rage as he carved into the arm, his mind screaming, “Failure.” Enjolras’s eyes stung. The arm finally detached from the body, and panting, Enjolras snarled as he kicked it away too. He watched it as it skimmed and rolled across the ground, only to stop mere inches away from the woman Joly had killed.

Enjolras glanced back at Joly, his body so disturbing to look upon without arms and the cool blood that trickled from him. His body grew heavy again, his wrath ebbing to wretched despair. “Murderer,” his mind screamed, “You killed your friend. Monster. Fiend. Beast.” He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose as he calmed himself. He then looked back over at the woman, recognizing that hair red as blood. He walked over to her, her fair skin sickly green in contrast to the deep crimson that pooled from her.

“Musichetta,” Enjolras whispered.

Her emerald eyes, wide and glazed, stared up to the moonlit sky, her lips parted slightly to spy her teeth, and blood dripped a single line from the corner of her mouth, down her jaw and neck.

“Oh, so he is well and truly gone then. The both of them,” said a voice.

Enjolras turned, gripping his cleaver and pistol, facing a man in gray rags. He face was covered by a hood, but as the man stepped closer, Enjolras recognized the shadowed face and deep-set eyes.  
“Feuilly,” Enjolras breathed, unsure whether or not to be relieved or afraid.

“Hello, Chief. Glad to see you still have your wits about you.” Feuilly smiled.

Enjrolas smiled too, putting away his weapons and embracing his friend. He was relieved, truly, to feel a warm companion in his arms. They pulled away from each other, and Feuilly patted his shoulder. Enjolras’s mind spun with questions, a million and one, and his tongue danced behind his teeth as he stuttered, unable to find himself a single one to ask.

Feuilly glanced about the area and muttered, “He must have been strong for so much blood.”

Enjolras winced, looking at the splotches of blood all about the street and stairs. “Some is mine.”

“Nevertheless, the stronger the beast the harder the kill. Such a shame,” Feuilly said as he looked between Joly and Musichetta. “The plague got him, and he killed her, is that it?”

Enjolras nodded, his joy turning to melancholy, “I couldn’t save her. And I was forced to kill him.”

“He would have wanted it. He despised beasts. His great fear was becoming one himself. Our poor, dear Joly.”

They were quiet a moment, staring down at their fallen friend, and Enjolras was glad to know he would not grieve alone. And then when the moment was gone, Feuilly started to walk, and Enjolras followed at his heels.

“Feuilly, what do you know of this place? Why are we no longer in Paris?” Enjolras asked.

“This is Paris,” he replied simply. “Paris within the Hunter’s Nightmare.”

“Hunter’s Nightmare?”

“Why else is the world not as it seems? Districts meshed and mingled that never touched in your Paris, half-remembered buildings and streets all living together as if they belong? Puzzle pieces, snipped and glued back together to form a picture that reveals nothing. This is the Hunter’s Nightmare, riddled with secrets. You sense it too, I presume?”

Enjolras nodded. “You must know the secrets then, if you’re so open to speak of them.”

Feuilly smirked, “Such a pleasure would that be. But I have yet to discover them. I cannot tell you why we are here, why we are no longer in your Paris. I can only share that it is for you to uncover. You must discover the secrets of this place yourself.”

“Why me?”

“Because we didn’t create this world.”

“And who did?”

A genuine smile curled across his lips. Under the shadow of his hood, Enjolras could see his eyes brighten.

“I’m gladdened to see,” said his friend, “such inquisition has not left you. But be wary. Secrets are secrets for a reason, and some do not wish to see them uncovered. Especially when the secrets are particularly unseemly.”

Enjolras frowned and internally groaned, despising how little he knew, how little anyone was willing to tell him. He felt as if everyone knew, Jehan, Feuilly, the Doll, and even perhaps Joly and the rest of beasts he slaughtered, knew something he did not, a well kept secret just spite him. Secrets. He rolled his eyes at the word.

Walking together, Enjolras looked around at the buildings no longer light by the red lanterns. The streets were still covered with filth and debris, and coffins could be spotted spread about the street. Other than the two of them, the streets were deserted of humans and beasts. Enjolras looked up at the moon, full and bright and bigger than it had any right to be. He thought of Jehan and Joly, wondering if the rest of Les Amis had were suffering the same fate. “A nightmare,” Enjolras thought. It was more than fitting.

They were quiet longer than Enjolras preferred and so he spoke. “What brought you here? Was it Joly?”

“I was hoping to find him alive and with his sanity,” Feuilly said. “I needed him.”

“For what?” He asked.

“I hunt hunters who have gone mad by the plague, as he did. I was hoping for a partner, and Joly was the only one I knew to have not succumbed. But I was wrong.”

“I can help you, mon ami,” Enjolras said.

Feuilly passed him a glance, “I’m gracious for your help. But you mustn’t fear the hunt. And you mustn’t hesitate.”

“What manner of beasts are we hunting?”

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre.”

Enjolras’s throat worked, his heart beat skipped, and Feuilly stared at him with such gravity, such determination, that Enjolras would not show emotion, not in front him. Not in front of a friend that looked to him as a leader—back then when their world was so much simpler it seemed. He remembered the revolution and his friends so eager to join him. And now he had to hunt them.

“We will set them free,” said Feuilly, “Beasthood is no way of living.”

Enjolras gripped his cleaver tightly, feeling the weight of it as he stared down at the teeth. How much blood has already soaked the blade? How much more will he feed to the cleaver? He thought of Joly and the arms of the beast he was slowly transforming into. He thought Courfeyrac and Combeferre. How far along were they? More beast than man? Beasts, blood-drunk fiends unable to recognize friend from foe. He reminded himself of Joly who was driven to madness by the plague, Joly as he killed Musichetta, Joly who tried to kill him again and again no matter who he was, no matter how many times Enjolras called his name.

“We are hunting beasts.” Enjolras said, unsure if it was to Feuilly or to himself. “We are hunting beasts, not citizens, not companions, not friends.” He looked at his friend, feeling stronger in his company, more assured now that he wasn’t alone. “We must kill them before they can do any more harm to us and anyone else.”

Feuilly nodded. “To the hunt, my friend.”

Enjolras spotted the messengers as they bloomed from the ground as they walked, leading the way, and for a brief moment, he thought of the Doll. He wondered also if Feuilly saw the little white creatures as clearly as he did. Feuilly did not seem to as he looked straight ahead, so very lost in the task at hand. Enjolras turned his attention away from them and listened to the clomping of their boots, the crunching of gravel against stone, how the blood-soaked soles quietly stuck to the ground. The trees’ leaves rustled in the wind, some so dry they fell from their branches to scrape across the cobblestone street. And with that wind came growling, low, animalistic, and as they came closer to the source, they could see beasts. Five of them lurked up and down the street, their bodies hunkered over as they walked. They walked upright like that of a human, their faces, arms, and abdomens wrapped in medical cloth. They were black and furred like Joly’s arms but all over, their feet clawed like their hands, teeth sharp like wolves, and bright yellow eyes.

“Beast patients,” said Feuilly. “Shall we?”

Enjolras watched as Feuilly approached a beast patient from behind, and then with the swiftness of his hand, he activated the blade he had within his gauntlet. He plunged the knife into the beasts back, held him there a moment and then ripped it from him. Silently amazed, Enjolras chastised himself for he had been to fascinated by his saw cleaver and had forgotten of the blades he had in both his left and right gloves. Two beasts took notice of their fallen friend and approached Feuilly, and he pulled out a sword from within his tattered robe. It was short and curved with an odd gap between the blade. And then with a hard yank, Feuilly pulled apart the sword as he ran, transforming the blade into two long daggers. Getting up as close as he could to a beast, he swung his blades, cutting the beast every which way before the creature could growl and raise his large claws. Blood splattered from the beast, and Enjolras moved, transforming his cleaver into the longer version as he approached his own prey. He swung at the beast, a long and heavy strike that cut the beast down from its head straight to its middle. It lodged at the beast’s abdomen and Enjolras listened to the crunch of bones as he pried the cleaver from its body. Beasts roared as this one collapsed before him, and Feuilly was already onto his third enemy. Enjolras ran then for the final beast standing, not wanting to appear weak in the eyes of his friend. And he lifted his cleaver at the beast and the monster jumped back. The black creature rose up its claws and Enjolras thought it meant to attack him. But instead, its body hunched over, its arms over its head as if for protection or perhaps surrender, and he heard something akin to a whimper escape it. The creature was shaking, its limbs, exaggerated by the fur, trembled, and Enjolras hesitated. He thought he felt pity.

And then Feuilly came alongside the beast and thrust his blade into the beast’s throat. It stiffened and the collapsed as Feuilly pulled his weapon from it. He wiped away the blood, panting. “You all right?”  
Enjolras nodded, hardening himself against what he had seen. They are beasts and nothing more.

They continued on, and Feuilly briefly showed him how to activate the knives underneath his gloves. A visceral attack, Feuilly had called it, when he had sneaked behind the beast, grabbed him and unleashed his hidden blade. Enjolras watched as his own knives shot out by a simple pull of a string wrapped around his middle finger. Gingerly he cocked the knives back in, all the while forcing himself not to think of the furred beasts, of Joly who was nearly transformed into one of the same. He thought of the past, of his friends in Paris before the revolution. He thought of them happy and drunk, unspoiled for the night by the horrors of their reality, of the poor that suffered and the rich that spat on them. Courfeyrac, Combefere, Joly, Jehan—Jehan. Jehan who was now lying in bed, sick and alone, and his only comfort, the incense in a red lantern. He glanced at Feuilly.

“Have you seen Jehan as of late?” Enjolras asked.

There was a flicker in Feuilly’s eyes, so minuscule that if Enjolras had not been so intent in his gaze, he might have missed it. But it was there, a flash of recognition, and his voice turned somber. “I hadn’t the chance to visit him.”

“His sickness is taking a hold of him much more rapidly than I imagined,” Enjolras said. “He thinks he will die human.”

Feuilly was silent a moment, tugging at his hood. “I hope so for his sake.”

They did not say any more. Enjolras hid the heaviness of his heart that threatened to show on his face. He thought of the beasts, he thought of death, his own death, and brick by brick he hardened himself. He watched as the messengers budded up from the ground, leading them to the bridge above the Seine River. It was wide enough to support two carriages along with a sidewalk on both sides for pedestrians, and luckily for them, no carriages had been toppled to obstruct their path in any way.

“The blood minister’s clinic is on the other side,” Enjolras said as they started across the bridge.

“Is that where you’re headed?”

“Jehan told me to speak to the minister there.”

“Hmm,” Feuilly nodded slowly, curiously, “I wonder what you’ll find.”

As they walked to the center of the bridge, they spotted a man on the other side. His hair was dark and devilishly curled, and his eyes that had once been just a dark as his hair, were now yellow and remained fixed on them, unblinking. “Courfeyrac,” Enjolras muttered to himself, gripping his cleaver and pistol. Courfeyrac held a cane in his hand, and with a hard yank of his wrist, he unleashed a large chain from within the cane at least two yards long. Enjolras could feel Feuilly shifting at his side.

“You take Courfeyrac. I’ll take Combeferre.” He said lowly.

And Enjolras looked behind him, spotting Combeferre who stood tall and broad, an unmovable force to block their escape. A cane was in his hand as well. They slowly approached as Enjolras and Feuilly stood back-to-back, waiting in anticipation as they bounced on the balls of their feet. And then Courfeyrac and Combeferre charged at them, raising their canes, and Enjolras and Feuilly took steps away from each other to prepare to dodge their attacks.

The world seemed to slow for Enjolras, his minding emptying of all thoughts that could distract him from his fight. But these were their friends they were facing, their friends that they had been hunting. His marble mask was cracking.

Courfeyrac’s chain whipped through the air, biting into the wind as he swung the threaded cane. Enjolras attempted to dodge, but the long reach of the cane snagged him at his back, eating into his flesh as it tore away chunks of muscle and blood. He groaned out, feeling the fiery sting, and he turned back to face Courfeyrac. He charged at Enjolras again, and Enjolras did too, quickly transforming his cleaver for close combat. His swing was faster than Courfeyrac’s, and the cleaver carved into his chest, three long, deep gashes that sent blood splattering onto Enjolras and the ground. Courfeyrac growled and kicked Enjolras away, smacking the cane against the ground to retract the chain inside. His movements were swift, much faster than with the chain, and Enjolras was unprepared. He struck him repeatedly, his stomach, chest, and face, the dull bladed cane cutting into him and Enjolras grunted at such aggressive strikes. But Courfeyrac was tiring, and when he went to strike him again, Enjolras was able to dodge his attack.

Enjolras stepped back, his muscles beginning to ache, and the sweat at his forehead burned the gash above his brow, blood dripping from it and stinging his eye. He wanted for a blood vial, his vision blurred and head ringing with the ache, but Courfeyrac was quick and relentless. Raising his cane, Enjolras quickly went for that small window of opportunity and fired his pistol. The bullet struck Courfeyrac in the chest, and he staggered, falling to his knees by the force of the quicksilver bullet. Enjolras charged at him, sheathing his pistol, and he extended the blade within his glove. He drove the knife into Courfeyrac’s chest, listening as the blade squelched past flesh and muscle, spurting out blood, and cracking through bone. Courfeyrac grunted and groaned out in pain, the yellow of his eyes flashing bright as if he recognized his own imminent death. Enjolras tore the blade from him, and he groaned at the force of it, blood flowing through him. Courfeyrac collapsed face down on the ground, blood pooling at Enjolras’s feet.

He huffed and panted, the ringing in his ears fading, and he could hear the fight between Feuilly and Combeferre. He turned his head and watched as Combeferre made the tactical error of swinging his chain whip too close to the stone railing. The chain smacked against the stone, unable to complete the swing, and Feuilly dodged the attack and darted around him. He then proceeded to visceral attack Combeferre, cutting into him and then yanking away his hand. The two watched as Combeferre fell to the ground, groaning and gurgling on his blood as he died.

Enjolras sighed in relief and took his blood, feeling his wounds close and energy return. Feuilly walked up to him. “You all right?”

Enjolras nodded, and Feuilly smiled and chuckled lowly. “It doesn’t get any easier.”

“No,” Enjolras agreed. “It certainly does not.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as gorey as the others, but still the warning applies.

On the opposite side of the bridge, Enjolras stood beside Feuilly, the two of them looking across at the bodies of their friends they had slaughtered. Enjolras hardened his gaze, his mind screaming “beasts”. Those fiends, those murderers, bloodthirsty, inhuman monstrosities were not his friends. His friends were elsewhere, safe and away from the horrors of the Hunter’s Nightmare, if only safe in the memories he held.

“Shall we continue?” Feuilly asked, beckoning his head to the right.

They stood in the middle of the three-way street. Enjolras watched as messengers popped up from the stone ground, leading him left. He looked back at Feuilly who stared at him curiously. He wanted to follow, to go wherever his friend went as long as he had company. But the messengers knew the way, and his heart slowed and silently ached at such an immediate parting.

“I wish I could, mon ami,” Enjolras said. “But I have other business to attend to.”

“Ah, yes. The blood minister.”

Enjolras looked to his left, seeing nothing but the all too familiar scene of buildings, carriages, and bodies. He wished to see the clinic, but of course, that would be too easy. He looked back at Feuilly. “I have questions only he can answer.”

Feuilly nodded. “I do not know much about blood. I do hope you find the answers you are looking for.” He then paused, turning his body from him, “Be cautious, Enjolras. If you happen cross Grantaire before I, do not confront him yourself. His power surpasses that of Les Amis combined. Perhaps it’s the drink.”

Enjolras could not bring himself to smirk or chuckle at Feuilly’s poor joke, not now, knowing Feuilly’s next target could potentially kill him. His brow furrowed, a faint indent of a line between them.  
Feuilly touched his shoulder. “Do not worry for me, my friend. I have my blood as you have yours.”

Enjolras nodded, his stern expression unwavering.

“Be well, Chief,” Feuilly smiled. “This isn’t the end of us.”

“Take care.”

The two parted, and Enjolras followed the path laid out by the messengers, his throat working as he briskly jogged, pushing all horrible thoughts out of his mind. Feuilly will live. He will talk sense into Grantaire, that foolish oaf. No more of his friends will die.

Beasts littered the streets, some as yellow-eyed men not yet transformed and others as black furred and clawed beast patients, hunkered over as they walked on two feet, seemingly creeping as they went. There were even a few that no longer walked upright. They walked on all fours, their snouts much longer, their forms like that of a wolf save for their broad shoulders. They attacked like a dog would, biting and snapping, and swiping their longs claws at him. Wolf beasts, Feuilly had mentioned them to him briefly. They were the absolute, the true form of a beast. Enjolras slayed them all, even those that coward away from him in fear. He resented these creatures, these humans -no-more, that only sought to kill anyone that moved. He’d kill them all before they harmed anyone else.  
Eventually, after turning so many street corners and through so many alleyways, Enjolras reached the clinic. The building was tucked away between larger structures that dwarfed the clinic. He had imagined a much grander building, but he trusted the messengers hadn’t led him astray. He walked up the few steps, noticing the door that was cracked open. Claw marks were scratched into it, and, holding his cleaver as his heart hammered in anticipation, he opened the door. It creaked in response, and by the candlelight inside, Enjolras could see the disarray of the waiting room. Chairs were overturned and some broken. The floorboards bore large claw marks as well, and they groaned under him as he walked. Papers and files were scattered about, books torn, and the deeper he went into the clinic, in the operating room, he found bloodied tables and patient beds. Medical equipment had been knocked over and blood and lumps of flesh soaked the floor. A patient’s body had been shredded, half of its body on the left side by the bookcase and the other on the opposite side of the room by the window. Enjolras’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening as he walked past the gore. He approached the wide staircase, spying the blood dipped paw prints that went up the stairs.

Enjolras took wide steps up the stairs, his eyes fixed on the entrance at the top. Moonlight guided him, and he reached the entrance to the doctor’s office, the double doors opening as far as their hinges allowed. Inside the office alit by the moon, Enjolras found the minister sitting at his desk, his head resting on the desk, a wound at his temple that bloodied his face, his gun that had fallen to the floor. Enjolras glared at the body, growling in his frustration. He put away his cleaver and paced the office before stopping before the body. He slammed his fist into the desk, hissing and panting, his mind turning frantic as he struggled to control himself. He cursed and swore to whatever god would hear him, shutting his eyes as his mind became consumed by his seething thoughts. Hopelessness seeped into his heart, and he wished he had ignored the messengers and followed Feuilly.

Upon opening his eyes, he noticed at the corner of the minister’s desk was a small book meant for note keeping. He took the book and went to the window to read it. It was a journal by the blood minister that he had kept ever since he had arrived to Paris over a year and a half ago, judging by the date, December, 1830.

“Blood cures all ailments. Indeed, this wondrous find mustn’t be reserved only to those in London.” it read, and Enjolras struggled to read the foreign Englishman’s writing, shuffling through is mind to call back university years. “I’ve come to Paris with the blood and the knowledge that those ignorant fools hoped to covet for themselves. I’ll make a difference here in Paris. The citizens will not suffer sickness any longer.”

Enjolras skipped through the journal, searching for passages that held little information.

“February, 1832. For the past year I have been successfully curing all illnesses my patients have come to me with. But over the past few months, familiar clients are returning, their sickness worse than when they had left. I do not understand. Why isn’t the blood curing them?”

The doctor went on to write of the possibilities of the failed blood ministrations, expired blood, malnourished clientele. He even questioned the alignment of the stars and satellites. Regardless, it was not working. He skipped to the last entry.

“June, 1832. I’ve failed. I could not save the child. And blood did not save the mother. What have I done? My blood couldn’t save them. My research hasn’t yielded any positive results. The city is sick, worse than when I had arrived. What more is to be done? What more good can I do?”

“Blood cannot save people,” Enjolras thought. “Does it then mask sickness long enough for the disease to weaken and kill its host?” He closed the book and glanced back at the blood minster. He pocketed the journal, decided the body would no longer be of need of it. “Fear the blood” returned to the forefront of his mind. “Perhaps it is foreign blood itself that kills receiving patients.”Enjolras wondered but found the conclusion impossible. Another unanswered question, and he gritted his teeth until they hurt. 

He walked down stairs, back into the operating room, and a light caught his eye. A lantern had unearthed itself and messengers crowded around it. Enjolras approached it, and as he did, another messenger appeared. It held up to him a red scarf, and Enjolras frowned, baffled by what he would need of it. He stared at the messenger that offered it to him, and its only response was to lift it higher. Sighing through his nose, he gave in to the little creature’s request and took the scarf, stuffing it between the belt at his hip.

He glanced at the lantern, wondering if he should return to the Hunter’s Dream. His bones seemed to turn to lead, and his muscles wished for rest. But he decided against it, preferring to continue than to stop for a breather that only wasted time. He wanted to find Feuilly. Perhaps he could shed some light on what he had found, if he could figure out what it meant and if it had any correlation to the prisoner’s warning. “Fear the blood” echoed in his mind again, the long, bloodied hand and arm that had grabbed him, the horrid face the limb belonged to. He thought of the jailer he attempted to save and the Bastille that turned to rubble and smoke after he had escaped.

“A nightmare,” Enjolras muttered to himself.

He left the clinic, walking passed the bodies of beasts he had killed, his cleaver in hand. He returned to the spot where he and Feuilly parted ways. He glanced at the path Feuilly had taken. He wondered if Feuilly had found Grantaire, if his hunt was a success. Enjolras turned then his attention back to the bridge, back to the body of beasts in his friends’ clothing. Sorrow threatened to chip away at the mask he wore. He didn’t wish to hunt again. He wanted for a friend, someone to confide in, that would understand his burdens. He thought of Jehan, alone in his home, caged by his sickness. Was Jehan missing him?

Enjolras did not follow after Feuilly. Instead, he made his way back to Central Paris, a long and tedious endeavor that depleted the energy he had. His muscles ached and head throbbed, the blood on his hair, clothes, and skin stiffening and reeking. His eyelids were heavy and movements were slow as he struggled to kill what beasts attacked him, and his exhaustion cost him. The last of the mob of Central Paris that had thwarted before him managed to slice him well and good, but after shooting the sentry atop the carriage, along with a few others that got in his way, he was able to take down the beasts one by one. His cuts burned him, and he hissed as his clothes touched the open wounds. He looked at his vials and noticed he had fewer than he had thought. Frowning at this, Enjolras rummaged through the corpses. Perhaps they carried more vials, and he would not have to needlessly waste his own. 

His stomach did not churn as it usually would have as he dug through the pockets of the bodies. He merely continued on from body to body. He found more quicksilver bullets, which he was grateful for, truly. But he wished for more vials, more than anything. The pain resulted in a throbbing in his head which in turn was so great, he nearly halted all movement, needing rest. He groaned as if an axe had been taken to his skull, and for a few moments all he saw was white. He hurt behind his eyes as the white faded, and Paris seemed to sway as his vision played its tricks on him. He moaned as he stood to his feet, rubbing his head. The pain miraculously ebbed away, and he began to move again. He grumbled, bitter that he hadn’t found extra vials on the bodies that created his agony and decided that he’d have to use his blood wisely, cautiously. He accepted this, for what more could he do? He’d have to or else they’d all be gone, and he’d have to suffer death time and time again. And besides, the cuts weren’t deep enough, he convinced himself. He could bear this minimal suffering. The pain kept him awake, kept him alert.

He sluggishly walked down the familiar street, passed the corpses of beasts he had slaughtered from what felt like days ago. He passed the lantern and turned the corner, suddenly feeling life seep back into him at the sight of Jehan’s window. But before he could make it, he heard a bark and low growling. He turned, and a beast patient, furred and clawed ran up to him. The creature swatted at him, and Enjolras jumped back in surprise, quickly going for his cleaver. He had never seen a beast of this stage in this section of Central Paris. Where had it come from? The beast was persistent, swinging his great arms in an attempt to draw blood. Enjolras dodged its attack, waiting for the beast’s movements to slow. Once he found his opening, Enjolras struck, swinging his cleaver into the beast’s body. The beast patient yelped out in pain, clasping at the wound. It then looked at Enjolras and extended its arm out to him. It then collapsed, blood flooding from it to touch Enjorlas’s boots.

He sighed in relief, closing his eyes a moment before latching the cleaver to his back. Enjolras then looked over at Jehan’s window, rubbing his eyes as he walked over.

“Jehan—” He breathed out the name, his voice hitching.

His heart nearly stopped, his blood tingling with panic. The light of the red lantern no longer shined. Jehan’s window was shattered, the white of the sheer curtains gently billowing in the breeze, and Enjolras thought that possibly a beast had broken in. But the bars that guarded the window were forced open from the inside, a circular hole of the bars that protruded outward not in. Enjolras’s heartbeat was in his ears, and a sharp ringing tore through him. Eyes wide and chest heaving in panic, he glanced from the window to the beast patient he had just killed.

He involuntarily stepped back, his back pressing to the wall, and he found himself sliding down to sit against it, facing the beast whose blood seeped and pooled red, red, red, all around him. He sat and stared at the body, his eyes ghosting over the black fur, the claws, the wide open yellow eyes, the parted mouth that showed his sharp wolf’s teeth. He swallowed, his tongue dry, the veins in his throat more prominent while his breathing became erratic as his nostrils flared. He glanced at the window, staring at the curtains.

“Jehan?” He feebly whispered.

He waited for an answer, waited and waited, his heart burning in panic and fear and grief. He called again and again, glancing between the window and the beast, sniffing as wetness left his eyes. There was never a returned reply no matter how long Enjolras waited, and he wished for a drink. He wished he could feel the wounds on his body, every one ever inflicted upon his person, anything else than the wretched horror, guilt, and anguish.

He stood, his eyes unblinking, fixated on the corpse. His knees wobbled as he forced himself to walk, distancing himself from the body. He could not think, his mind empty of all thoughts, and he could hear nothing but the echoing of his footsteps that led him away from the beast back to the lantern, to the Doll and the Hunter’s Dream.


	8. Chapter 8

The Dream presented him clean to the Doll as it had done time and time again, unbesmirched by the grim and the muck and the stench of blood, his hair and clothing no longer clumped together in masses by the burgundy now dried. He rose to his feet, fresh, anew, and unhurt as if he had slept a fortnight to rejuvenate his strength, and yet his stomach churned, utterly disgusted, nauseous, acidic bile at the back of his throat. His cleaver latched to his back and his firearm at his belt underneath his coat, Enjolras approached the Doll, glancing up at her beneath his eyelashes.

“Good Hunter.” Her greeting was tender and warm, as if her voice meant to envelop him in comfort that she would not physically give.

He wished then to embrace her, for himself, for his own comfort, an attempt to stitch himself back together through touch no matter if inhuman. He glanced at her knuckles, black lines where the joints met as she clasped her hands at her midsection. His eyes trailed up to look into her eyes, seeking any measure of understanding in them, and within it all, he found grief to mirror his own. His throat worked as he stared into her deep brown eyes that shined back at him, until her gaze burned him, and he retreated to look at his feet.

“Jehan succumbed.” Enjolras muttered, his voice cracking.

“I know.”

His hands curled into fists, and he swallowed. Slowly, he looked up at her. “And you know what I did?"

She nodded.

He barred his teeth, clenching his eyes shut as a whimper bubbled up his throat. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t.” The Doll replied. “You were rash and clumsy. Your wounds made you weary and clouded your judgment.”

Enjolras sniffed, his eyes stinging, and he looked up at her. Skin of porcelain, dark, kind eyes, and a voice of silk.

“But your friend would have rather faced the blade than live as a beast,” she said. “You set him free.”

Enjolras shook his head, “I didn’t want it to come to this. I wanted to save him. He should not have turned! I could have saved him if only I had more time!”

The Doll did not flinch as his voice rose, as he yelled out into endless mist of the Hunter’s Dream. Her hands folded over each other at her front, she patiently watched him, and Enjolras wanted for her touch. He wanted to know she understood, that she cared, and perhaps she could ease his grief and loneliness.

“Why me? Why am I bound to this Dream? Why am I cursed?” Enjolras asked. “Why must I murder my friends, the men I treasure above all else? Have I died and I do not know? Is this hell?”

The Doll waited a moment as if in contemplation, her eyelashes gracing her white cheeks. She looked at him, holding his gaze. “I only know what insight the messengers grant me. I only know you, Good Hunter.”

Enjolras felt cold and uneasy, waiting for her as she paused.

“I know the night holds many secrets. And you must discover them and ease your wearied mind,” said the Doll. “Do not let the deaths of your friends distort your path. Love them in your heart as you always have. Carry them with you. As long as the night lasts, they still live.”

“And when the night ends?”

The Doll blinked and her lip twitched. It was only a moment, but Enjolras saw it, the faintest expression of sadness. It vanished as suddenly as it came, and Enjolras quietly resented that look she so desperately tried to hide. He said nothing of it and settled for her silence.

He turned from her, walking up the stairs into the sanctuary. He shut his eyes, growling. His friends’ faces flashed in his mind’s eye, their voices in his ears. His eyes burned, tracks staining his cheeks as the tears breached through his resolve. He collapsed, refusing the chair that stood only a few steps away. Enjolras held his face in his hands and wept, bitterly wept. He did not know how long he sat there, and he did not move, not even when his tears ran dry and his body ached. All the while, the Doll stood out in the garden, her back to him, waiting.

His heart was heavy and his bones just as so. “They aren’t of my Paris,” Enjolras reminded himself. “They aren’t my friends, not truly.” He closed his eyes, swallowing as the words sunk into his flesh, his muscles, his veins. They were not of his Paris, but this is now his reality. And in this reality, he murdered his friends. “Beasts,” Enjolras thought. 

He glanced down at his hunters’ garb, his red coat and black trousers. He glanced at the pistol at his side and felt the weight of the saw cleaver at his back. He was no longer a revolutionary for the freedom of France. He was a cursed man, a hunter of beasts, and his escape was his only option left. 

Enjolras looked about the room until his eyes settled on the trunk. He breathed deeply, forcing himself not think any longer. He removed the blood minister’s journal from his pocket and flipped through the pages, familiarizing himself with foreign words and letters. The messengers wanted him to find this. The doctor must have known something more, some secret just out of reach. Enjolras swore to unravel the truth. He must.

Lest the night carry on forever.

Enjolras stood and walked up to the trunk. He placed the minister’s journal inside it alongside the notes he had found. He thought back to the clinic, the blood strewn all about, the body of the minister and all the man had failed to accomplish. He then remembered the scarf, and he took it from his belt. He did not understand why the messengers had given it to him. He had no need of it. Perhaps he should leave it in the trunk with the other various items he’d collected. Enjolras stared at the thin red fabric and glanced out the sanctuary door. The Doll stood at the base of the steps, her back to him. Her raven hair spilled down to the middle of her back, beautifully contrasting against her pale skin and complimenting the crimson of her dress. Scarf in hand, Enjolras walked to her.

“Here.” He outstretched his hand for her to take the scarf.

She glanced at him, the scarf, and then back at him.

“What is this? For me?” She asked.

He nodded, her childlike innocent warming him despite himself. Hesitantly, the Doll took it from him, gasping as nimble fingers wrapped around it.

Enjolras’s brows furrowed, “What’s wrong?”

Her mouth opened slightly, but she paused, her eyes shining. “I… I can’t remember, not a thing. Only, I feel. A yearning, something I’ve never felt before.”

And then she looked at him, her eyes more alive, more human than he had seen, and his heartbeat quickened.

“Tell me, Hunter. Could this be joy?”

The Doll smiled, lifting her hand as she clasped the scarf to her chest. Enjolras smiled too, gladdened to know he could make her happy in the very least. But the Doll hadn’t the faintest idea as to how or why the scarf had brought up such a feeling. He wanted to ask her if she felt anything else, if she knew anything else, but he held his tongue. She knew just as little as he did and such prying would be wasted effort. So he left her to her precious gift, touched the headstone, and returned to the Waking World.

~

Enjolras could not, would not return to the Central Paris lantern. Instead he chose the Blood Minister’s Clinic lantern as it was much closer to his intended destination. He immediately left the clinic, running through the street to return to the crossroads of where he and Feuilly had parted. He followed the path his friend had taken, the messengers bubbling up from the earth to guide his way. He ran past the various corpses of beasts, the excess blood and dismembered bodies evident of Feuilly’s wrath. One was even cut in half from midsection. And as he continued for what felt like an hour—the moon, full and white above him in the midnight sky—the blood spewed about grew fresher and fresher, and Enjolras smiled to himself. Surely he was getting closer!

And then the blood led him up a staircase adjacent from the street. His blood soaked boots smacked against each step he took and he could feel the blood within him rush. His stomach tingled with a wave of anxious anticipation, eager to find Feuilly just beyond the staircase. 

And as he walked, approaching a bloody corpse of a man in red, white, and blue, a National Guardsman—the first Enjolras had yet to see—a messenger appeared to him, stopping Enjolras in his tracks. For a moment, Enjolras found himself annoyed with this messenger that had disrupted his pace, briefly halting his return to Feuilly. But upon looking at the creature that only served to help, Enjolras buried his irritation. The bony little friend lifted up to him a note that was splattered with blood, and he took it, nodding his thanks. He read it, noticing the frayed edge on the left side of the page.

“The red moon hangs low, and beasts rule the streets. Are we left no choice than to burn it to cinders?”

Enjolras read the name the paper was signed with and glanced at the guardsman. In the body’s hand, he held a thin, bloody, leather bound book. Enjolras opened the book, a journal, and the red-stained papers within were, too, torn from the journal’s backing. The one he held in his hand matched the rest. Enjolras glanced at the messenger that stared up at him. He pocketed the note and continued up the stairs.

At the top, Enjolras found himself standing before a gated graveyard, tombstones placed irregularly within the confines of the large iron gate. Dead trees still standing were scattered about the enclosed graveyard and crows sat, perched upon the thick branches, cawing as Enjolras drew near. Buildings rose up all around, blocking off access except from the gate where Enjolras stood and the other at the far end of the yard. And just above the line of buildings, he saw a faint glow of orange, a line of dusty light like fine rust. The faded colored melted into the black of night and the moonlight unwavered at the sudden streak of invading color.

Enjolras pried open the gate, pulling it back as it creaked and groaned in response, letting it go with enough prior force to watch the heavy metal swing slightly on its hinges. He then stepped into the graveyard, and the crows’ caws became like erratic hisses, their dark wings flapping variously, and even a few flew away. Enjolras continued through the graveyard, spying bloody bodies lay out on the tombs. He swallowed, his eyes bouncing from body to tombstone until he heard a sharp smacking. He quickly snapped his head toward the sound, his heart hoping “Feuilly”, but beyond the headstones, all he saw was a dark figure hunkered over. His back was to Enjolras, and he lifted his weapon, a large axe, its blade larger than a two human heads, high above his head. The man swung it down again and again and again, paying no heed as Enjolras made his way closer, and Enjolras then saw the corpse the man was cutting. Burgundy blood splattered with each swing, and a sick crunching, squelching sound came with it. How long had he been hacking away at the same corpse, unaware that it was long since dead? Enjolras stared at the man standing, his black curls clumped together in a mass, the dark red of blood staining the white sleeves of his shirt and grey vest on top. He knew him. He knew him before noticing the bottle the man rose to his lips. The man took a sip, but then stopped suddenly, his nostrils flaring. He lowered the bottle, hissing as he swallowed what Enjolras assumed to be liquor and turned his head.

Grantaire’s eyes were bright, eager, and yellow as piss.

“What’s that smell?” Grantaire rasped and panted. “Oh, the sweet blood… It sings to me.”

Grantaire’s walk was lazy, a smile without a care plastered upon his face as he rested the axe on his shoulder. He looked like an executioner at play. He took a large pull from his bottle, and Enjolras readied himself with his weapons as Grantaire drew close. And then just as Enjolras was about to strike, alcohol spattered from Grantaire’s mouth, sparkling amber misting flooding his vision entirely. Enjolras shut his eyes and staggered back, the alcohol burning his skin like acid, and before he could get his bearings, Grantaire’s axe buried itself into Enjolras’s shoulder, cutting through him, and he spat out blood, unable to cry out in sudden excruciating pain. His vision faded to black before Grantaire finished the bloody cut, and within that darkness, he thought he heard someone call for him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter so far. It's dark and gorey, same as always but the stuff in between is what I'm really happy with. Enjoy! And if I remember correctly, this is the last chapter viri betas. So after this, it will be a surprise for everyone!

At first there was nothing but white, blinding white no matter which way he moved, and Enjolras thought that he had died for good. He could feel himself breathe and move; he could touch his person, and feel the solid mass that was himself. Was this death? He couldn’t be sure. And yet he felt utterly calm within his confusion, except there was something there, masked behind the tranquility he felt. It made his blood rush and pound, but he could not distinguish the feeling. Then, faint at first, and then louder and louder until his head began to ache, a high-pitched buzz rang in his ears. Seconds passed to minutes, and he cringed, the ringing rendering him immobile. But then, that buzz slowly gave way to a mild, bearable ring, and the endless white slowly ebbed too. Enjolras blinked and the white misted to reveal his surroundings. Broken bits of furniture, wood, and debris created a wall at his right. Men clamored before him, fear in every expression, and a rifle in hand. A loud blast could be heard despite the ringing in his ears, and the far end of the barricade exploded in a burst of fire, smoke, and screams. The ringing faded entirely as two men tore through the smoke that clouded the opposite end. They ran to him, their faces bloody, and one man’s eye teared blood, closed shut. They were shouting at him, that much Enjolras knew as he watched as their mouths moved, struggling to hear whatever they were saying.

“Chief!” The man sounded leagues away.

Enjolras’s head hurt. His ears hurt. Behind his eyes hurt. His body was cold as he glanced down at himself, his chemise and overcoat soaked with blood. There was a pistol in his hand, and he remembered where he was.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre screamed.

He snapped his head to look at the terrified man before him. It was Courfeyrac who stood beside him, cupping his bloodied eye.

“What do we do?” Combeferre struggled to conceal the panic from his voice. “The barricade’s been breached!”

A sudden anger swelled within him, something that had been laying there, Enjolras sensed, within the confusion, before the white. He clutched the pistol, gritting his teeth.

“Take as many of them as you can,” Enjolras said.

National Guard poured through the dispersing smoke, shouting and cursing, rifles raised.

“Vive la France!” Enjolras roared with a wild fury.

One by one he watched his friends drop like flies, and wrath and guilt, grief and shame overwhelmed his senses. He did not see the man that raised his rifle to him. He did not hear the fired bullet that would pierce him. All he knew was his rage and a wild desire for death.

~

White enveloped him again briefly, until darkness returned to reign. He awoke then to the mist and the earth and the garden, the Doll standing before him beside the tombstone.

“Welcome home, Good Hunter.” She said as he rose to his feet.

He stared at her for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, his mind regressing back to the time before the Hunter’s Dream.

He turned to glance at the tombstone and the messengers that appeared before it. “I remember everything,” he muttered in near disbelief.

“Do you?” The Doll asked calmly.

He glanced back at her. “I remember the barricade. I remember Les Amis, my friends, all of our talks of freedom around the tables of the Café Musain. I remember life before the revolution. I’ve remembered it all since my first death. But I remembered fragments that were not entirely clear. But this time it is different. Every memory I can call back is clear and vivid, as if it only happened yesterday. And still, there is something more.”

He should have felt happy, pleased to know unclouded truth. But he could not shake the looming dread and anger that encased his heart. And the Doll remained as serene as the mist as she stared back at him. Her dark eyes were void of inquisition or expression, but Enjolras could not take notice as he began to frown, the muscles in his face tightening.

“I remember… Pain. Pain on every face of my friends as I led them to their deaths. There had always been an empty blank... I hadn’t remembered, not truly, the events that transpired at the barricade. There was a piece of me that hoped… That they lived. But now I know, that hope was only a guilt ridden dream. I sent them to their deaths. I murdered them. They are dead. But…”

Enjolras paused, struggling to find the words to describe exactly what he recalled. It was there, on the tip of his tongue, but he could not scrape it passed his teeth. He did not really know what it was that he felt. But he needed to speak, to free his mind of the burden. 

He spoke slowly, “In that moment, I was so overcome that my will to fight and yearn to die mixed. I sacrificed my life for the revolution… For the people of France. I can’t help but feel it was all for nothing. I abhor myself for all I have done and all that I have failed to accomplish.”

He looked back at the Doll, his frown twisting to irritation and confusion. “Why am I not dead?”

“Do you remember the transfusion of blood?”

Enjolras tilted his head in recollection. “I remember lying on my back. I remember a man and a needle. But nothing after until I woke up here.”

“It has yet to be completed.” The Doll said. “Blood and life flows through you now. But barely. Your mind is not ready to awaken. Each death in the Waking World, in the Hunter’s Nightmare has granted you insight. But it is not enough.”

Enjolras’s expression hardened, remembering her words as he looked at her. “Insight is not enough. I must find the source of the scourge of beasts, is that it? ‘Lest the night carry on forever.’”

She nodded. “Your pain, your suffering has caused your mind to come undone. It is why you are here. You must leave this dream but only after you’ve discovered the root of madness.”

Enjolras glanced at the headstone and muttered, “The source of the scourge.” He took a step towards the slab of stone. As he was about to touch it, he expected to hear her gentle voice guiding him off as she always did, but instead her hand clasped at his wrist. He paused, straightening as he glanced back at her. Her eyes, behind two strands of raven hair, shined then, her features soft, lined with grief. He then noticed the scarf he had given her about her neck. His lips parted, unsure of what to say, but wishing to rid her of such a horrid expression that somehow seemed to suit her so well. A doll borne of melancholy. He hated it, missing her smile.

“The messengers have told me about your Paris. About Patria, and your love.” The Doll’s voice was a near whisper. “But, do you love your creation? I am a doll, created by your grieving mind. Would you ever think to love me?”

Enjolras’s blood chilled. He swallowed, unable think of any sort of reply.

She smiled, gentle and understanding despite the tears in her eyes. “Of course, I do love you. Isn’t that how you made me?”

A messenger grabbed Enjolras’ wrist, forcing his hand to the headstone. Her solemn expression was the last he saw as his world vanished, her voice in his ears, and the Hunter’s Nightmare surrounded him. He braced himself, glancing about the minister’s clinic, suddenly wanting for the Dream. Combing his fingers through his hair, he hissed out a sharp sigh. He could return to the Hunter’s Dream, to the home within the madness. But, as he leaned against the wall of the clinic, he found himself immobile. His heart was heavy, heavier than he originally knew. Was it his friends or the revolution, or France, or perhaps was it all of it that trapped his heart in a sepulcher of boundless grief and ire? No, there must be something else. But what, then, if he remembered everything? He rummaged through his mind’s eye, thinking back to the reality he knew and the Hunter’s Nightmare. But none of it made sense. None of it ever had, so why linger now? With great effort, he ignored the emotions that festered at his heart. Finish the job and be done with it. Escape the Nightmare and awaken. Escape and live.

Enjolras left the clinic and followed the streets back to graveyard. As he ran up the stairs and passed the body of the Nation Guardsman, he could hear the clang of metal, grunts and curses and manic laughter, and there in the graveyard Feuilly was engaged in a furious fight with Grantaire. Feuilly, with his curved daggers in hand, was swift enough to dodge Grantaire’s heavy attacks with his axe, but due to the range of the axe, Feuilly could not get close. Enjolras ran for his friend, meandering in and out of the graves that stood in his way. Grantaire then swiped at Feuilly’s feet which caused Feuilly to lose his footing, and he fell back. Just as Grantaire raised his axe to strike, Enjolras was behind him. He struck him with a visceral attack, the hidden blade at his wrist digging into Grantaire’s back, piercing through muscle and bone. Grantaire dropped to his knees, screaming out in pain. Enjolras tore the blade to the left, cutting across his back before ripping the blade from his body and kicking him to the ground. Feuilly rolled out of the way as Grantaire collapsed to the ground.

“That wasn’t necessary of you.” Feuilly said as he held his side. Enjolras offered his hand and Feuilly took it, groaning as he stood. “But you have my thanks, Chief.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “Yes, from down there, you looked like to be managing well of things.”

Before Feuilly could respond, he saw as Enjolras did, Grantaire’s body shift. They turned and looked at Grantaire who now stood upright, his yellow eyes wild and blood dripping from his smiling lips.  
“Mes amis,” He rasped, “I’ve taken my blood just as you.”

And then that smile turned to a scowl as a thin line of crimson seeped from his mouth. He tightly gripped his axe, and Enjolras flicked his wrist, elongating his saw cleaver.

“Let’s make this quick,” Enjolras said.

Feuilly hissed, “With pleasure.”

Grantaire roared out in frustration and charged, twisting his body and swinging his axe, and both Enjolras and Feuilly rolled out of reached. Grantaire turned on a pivot, his body shifting as he lifted his axe again to strike at Feuilly, and Enjolras went again to hit him at his back. But Grantaire was ready for this, and so swiftly did he turn to slash at Enjolras, that he was surprised and unprepared. The blade of the axe bit into his side as Enjolras jumped back. He hissed as he pressed his hand to the wound, falling onto one knee. While Grantaire was distracted, Feuilly deftly clipped his Achilles’ tendon with his dagger, and Grantaire shouted out in indignation, swinging his axe again and again furiously. Feuilly, seeing his opening, rolled through the wide swings, and on one knee, plunged both daggers into Grantaire’s stomach, slicing down. Grantaire groaned out, kicking Feuilly away from him with enough force that broke his nose, throwing him again on his back.

Grantaire stepped back, reaching for a vile of blood he held on his belt.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras said, stepping in front of him, giving them enough space away from Feuilly.

He growled. “I’ll kill you again and again and again! I’ll paint the moon with your blood.” 

Enjolras watched as Grantaire realized that although he hadn’t the time to heal his wounds, Enjolras too did not use his own blood vial. The wound at his side oozed blood just as the wounds Grantaire received. Enjolras was willing to risk his life on the hope of one successful blow. If he failed it could very well endanger Feuilly’s life. Grantaire grinned at this and took his axe in both hands. Leaping off one foot, he charged, and Enjolras stood on the balls of his feet, ready. When Grantaire came in close, their bodies an arm’s length apart, the axe slicing through the air, Enjolras fired his pistol. At such a close distance, the bullet pierced through Grantaire’s chest and out his back. Enjolras dogged the swing of the axe as Grantaire stumbled forward, gasping. Enjolras then took the few steps back to Grantaire, and before the beast could move, Enjolras buried the blade of his gauntlet deep into Grantaire’s chest. His yellow eyes widened, his mouth agape as dark red gushed out. Enjolras held him still and watched as Feuilly approached Grantaire from behind. He presented both blades to the flesh of the beast’s throat, dug them deep and slashed open his throat. Blood spewed from him, and Enjolras relinquished his hold on him and both he and Feuilly watched as Grantaire crumpled to the floor.

They panted in unison, and Enjolras did not meet Feuilly’s gaze as he bent down and snatched the blood vials off the corpse at his feet. He handed them to Feuilly who shook his head.

“Keep them Chief. You need them more than I.”

“Feuilly, you need them just as I do.”

“I’ve taken mine. Go on.” Feuilly replied as he transformed his duel blades into one.

Enjolras’s jaw tightened, a slight line forming at his forehead. But he was in no mood to argue. He injected one into his thigh, feeling the warmth of its effects as the blood coursed through him. He pocketed the others. “I’m only holding them for you.”

Feuilly said nothing and proceeded to walk through the graveyard to the opposite end. Enjolras followed behind him until the cool light of a newly sprouted lantern caught his attention. Within that light, Enjolras was reminded of the Doll, until Feuilly called him over. He looked over at his friend and abandoned the lantern, walking across the graveyard to Feuilly. The gate on that side blocked their way, and as Enjolras gripped the bars. Just as he was about to pry open the gate, Feuilly’s head snapped back, his eyes wide. He looked as if a ghost had kissed him.

“Do you hear that?” 

Enjolras blinked, uncertain. “Hear what?”

Feuilly looked back at him and paused before shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Feuilly?”

“Let us continue.” He proceeded to force the bars apart.

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, wondering if he should press the matter. He then helped push the gate open, listening to the clanking and moaning of the metal. They abandoned the graveyard and the corpses within it and proceeded through the alley, passing multiple corpses of the National Guard.

“How much do you remember now?” Feuilly asked.

“I remember everything,” Enjolras replied.

“Oh, do you?” They walked out of the alley and into the open street. “Well that’s a pleasant surprise. I was under the assumption that there were still bits and pieces missing. Glad to see your wits are intact, truly.” He then halted his walked and Enjolras along with him.

“Do you still wish to uncover the secrets of the Nightmare?” Feuilly said. “You know as much as I that blood has a part to play in this.”

“The blood minister’s journal told as much.” Enjolras added.

“Right, yes. But there is much more. You were drawn to Nightmare thanks to your inability to handle the secret.”

“And you know where I can find the source?” Enjolras pressed, mildly irritated with his friend’s dance with words.

Feuilly grinned.

“Climb the Café Musain and kill Éponine. She hides the real secret.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was both painful to write and fun at the same time.

Paris was aflame. Buildings on both sides of the street were torched, and whatever else touched the flaming buildings, corpses, coaches, coffins, burned as well. As Enjolras and Feuilly walked the street, Enjolras stared up at the fires in perplexion and awe. The blaze, yellow, orange, red, and white licked and lapped, but did not consume. Sparks spat from the fire, but no heat emitted. Nothing burned and yet, the fire was very much alive, unending. Enjolras glanced at Feuilly, who paid no mind to the harmless fires. As they walked together, he soon found it easy to ignore the flames that did not burn. In silence, Enjolras pondered the existence of the fire. Perhaps this was another of his mind’s tricks, an attempt to cope with whatever madness he experienced in his Paris. Or perhaps it meant nothing at all, the consequence of his broken mind. They walked deeper into the flames of the city together. Stepping over corpses of National Guardsmen and civilians, Enjolras was reminded of the note the messengers had given him. The inferno engulfed this side of the city, but the moon remained high and white.

“Do you remember,” Feuilly spoke without passing a glance at Enjolras. “The time before the long night?”

Enjolras stared at him who merely smiled as if his silence was answer enough.

“Ah, I remember none of it. I know nothing but the hunt and the Hunter’s Nightmare,” said Feuilly.

As they walked, the street before them turned red, blood pooled all about, their footsteps heavy and sticky with blood. The stone street became less and less a street as they walked deeper into the blood that splattered in rings under their feet. Their shadowy forms reflected in the crimson river, a stark contrast to the flames that shined within the ruby waters, and Enjolras hardened himself. He glanced at Feuilly who only looked straight ahead, and Enjolras followed his gaze.

Before them stood a barricade, but this was not the barricade that he was so familiar with within his memories. No, this was not that of his revolution, the one made of the debris and discarded belongings of hopeful citizens. This barricade was of corpses, red, flayed, hollowed corpses piled atop each other. It was the source, it seemed, of the river of blood that flooded the street. As Enjolras stared, his footsteps coming to a halt as Feuilly’s did, he blinked in the face of such an unholy scene. He thought perhaps it was the flames that had been playing tricks on his eyes. But the longer he stared, the cold chill of realization ran up his spine, and he clenched his jaw. The corpses, like a giant mass of throbbing flesh, moved. They writhed and swayed, and Enjolras could hear the distinct low moans of agony. They looked at the pair, the last living beings to touch the river of blood, and Enjolras frowned, his nose crinkling in repulsion. 

“It’s a shame,” said Feuilly as he stared ahead at the mound of bodies. “This is all that I know. That while you dream and dream, now more aware than ever of your reality, I am bound to the Nightmare. I know just as well as you. I cannot continue with you.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed as he glanced at his companion, unaccustomed to such somber words from him. But it was his last words that made Enjolras’s stomach drop with sudden fear.

Feuilly stared on at the barricade, his eyes unblinking as he continued. “You cannot hear it can you? You will soon enough. A bottomless curse.”

“Feuilly?”

“Tell the Doll I said ‘hello’.”

Before Enjolras could think, Feuilly swiftly lifted his arm and jammed the palm of his hand into his jaw, shoving his chin up and Enjolras smacked his teeth together, groaning at the crack of his jaw. Unable to react, his body went into sudden shock as he felt Feuilly plunge the blade within his glove into Enjolras’s throat. Feuilly tore the blade from his neck, and Enjolras scrambled, reaching for the hole and pressing his fingers into the flooding blood. As he did, he lost balance, collapsing into the blood drenched street. The colors around him began to fade as he choked, tasting blood both his and not, watching as Feuilly darted from his side towards the barricade. His vision darkened and he failed to call out to his friend, his figure becoming a shadow and from that shadow the darkness crept, engulfed his sight until he died.

Enjolras jolted as he awake, his body stiffening as he reached for his throat and wheezed. He sucked in each breath, feeling his lungs fill with the cool mist of the air. He crawled onto his hands and knees, coughing.

“Good Hunter.” He heard the Doll say.

“Feuilly,” he muttered.

He did not look at her as he rushed to his feet, calling again for Feuilly as he ran to the headstone. The words “Paris Graveyard” had appeared and eagerly, he touched them. The Hunter’s Dream faded and the dark and dismal graveyard stood in its place. Grantaire’s body was only a few steps away from the lantern, but Enjolras could not think of the horror of the corpse that lay there. Instead, he ran through the graveyard and into the alley that led him back to the street and the river of blood. He huffed and panted, his heart pounding into his throat, his mind racing with everything and nothing, and all he could think of was getting back to Feuilly.

Blood splashed about, staining his clothing and seeping into his boots as he ran through the blood that drenched the street. He could see the false barricade, and it grew and writhed more and more with each passing step. The horror, the sublime, all of it converging here at the heaping pile of blood and flesh, and what stood behind it, Enjolras could see clearly the large, daunting Café Musain.

Enjolras climbed the barricade, feeling the cold bodies beneath him, their moans and cries of despair echoing in his ears. He reached the top and stood erect, quickly glancing about without failing to notice that both ends of the barricade jutted up against the buildings. Once he went in, it would be too difficult to escape the confines. He disregarded that uncomfortable fact when he spotted the crimson form of his friend laying face up in the pool of blood. He rushed down, stumbling as he went and nearly tripping over a corpse that, by sheer will, lifted itself up to groan in dismay. It watched him as he raced down, the eyeless creature, and Enjolras thought for a moment that it whispered, “Help us.”

He reached the bottom with a splash into the blood—the amount of it now was up to his ankles—much more than when he was outside the barricade. He rushed over to Feuilly, his rags soaked in blood, his hood fallen to spy his face. Enjolras went to his knees and took him in his arms and Feuilly’s head lolled into the crook of Enjolras’s arm. Feuilly’s eyes were open, wide and glassed, but he did not see. Enjolras watched as Feuilly’s chest shallowly heaved, his breathing labored, and a thick line of blood seeped from his lips. Bone protruded from his skin and pierced through the rags of his legs and forearm. His ribcage was distorted, bones sunken in, and his pelvis was crushed.

Tears stung Enjolras’s eyes and he clutched Feuilly tighter. “Feuilly, why?”

He wheezed, struggling to breathe as he rasped, “Don’t you hear the bells?”

Enjolras, bewildered by such a question, nevertheless listened for a moment and heard no bells but the sickly sound of Feuilly’s breathing.

“Surely… You must hear them now.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I hear nothing.”

Feuilly winced, groaning out. “They… They’ve chased me… An echo in my mind. The ringing is clear now… Don’t you hear their tolling?”

“Let me get the vials. You’ll be all right. You’ll live.” Enjolras said as he reached for the blood vials on his person.

“What does it matter?” Feuilly returned slowly, his mouth coated slick and red. With what energy he could muster, he halted Enjolras’s hand. “You’ll be dead… Soon enough. You cannot bear… The weight of your failure… Your grief forever.”

“Feuilly—”

“It isn’t fair.” Tears and blood seeped from him as he gasped for air. “It just isn’t fair.”

Enjolras felt him as Feuilly breathed his last, his body shuddering through his final exhale. His eyes clouded and glossed, stared up unwatching at the silver light of the moon. Enjolras gasped and huffed, his jaw clenched tight as sobs wrecked through his form, and he shook with horror, rage, and unrelenting anguish. He clutched the broken body of his companion, his friend, and in his grief, every death, every murder of a dear friend broke the walls of his mind.

In his despair, he did not see small sections of the pool beginning to bubble. The tiny bubbles of blood slowly grew to bigger ones that welled and popped and more and more blood began to condense around these three separate sections. And when the blood began to swell and mold did Enjolras take notice, and a feeling of dread loomed over him. Rapidly, the blood began to rise and take form, growing and growing into a solid mass, and the moans of the barricade of corpses grew louder.

“Failures,” the mass of bodies said with a collective, breathy hiss. “Living Failures...”

Enjolras, with reluctance, relinquished his hold on Feuilly, and stood to his feet, taking his cleaver and pistol in hand. He watched as the three columns of blood grew a full length taller than him. Blood dripped back into the pool, sculpting themselves to take the form of humans, giant hulking, crimson humans. And the more Enjolras stared and these unholy creatures stared back, Enjolras found his heart dropping like a stone into his stomach. These ghastly monstrosities were those of the rest of his friends. 

Enjolras stepped back, feeling himself weaken in the shadows of Bossuet, Bahorel, and Marius Pontmercy. They must have been the ones that crushed Feuilly. They were what destroyed the last friend he had of this wretched nightmare.

He stood in silence as he tightened his grip on his weapons, waiting, watching for any of the three to make the first move. He was grateful, at the very least, that the area of this fight was gracious in space aside from the looming Café Musain and the barricade. He thought then of Feuilly, fighting these monsters on his own, and he swallowed hard the lump in his throat.

Not a sound from them was made and the Failures began to move. They were slower than any beast he had fought, but their long limbs and numerical advantage was not without notice. It was Marius that came at Enjolras first; his body hunched over as he went to swing his arm at Enjolras, but he dodged the attack, rolling passed Marius’s strike to reach his legs. He swung his cleaver one, two, three times, and expected the creature to stagger, but instead a bloody, heavy hand slapped him away. The slap though had enough force to send Enjolras flying back, grunting in pain from the strike and landing a few meters away, splashing into the blood and rolling on his side. Enjolras groaned, his body aching as if he had been hit by cannon fire, and he coughed, holding his side. Slowly, he lifted himself up, his head spinning and burning from the pain. But the Failures would not wait for him to recover, and neither could he. He forced himself to move, rushing back to attack Marius. He dodged his attack, another sweeping strike of his arm, his hand a fist as he attempted to crush Enjolras into the ground. Enjolras, in return, swung his cleaver again and again, carving layers of blood away as he tore into Marius’s legs. Marius’s left leg then buckled, collapsing to one knee, and Enjolras’s adrenaline spiked further, eager to bring down one Failure without interference from the others.

But he had miscalculated the speed of the other Failures. One had rushed at him before he could recover from his attacks on Marius. The Failure kicked him, sending him across the pool of blood to smash into ground and slide and hit the wall of the Musain. Enjolras’s ears rang loud and piercing, and his vision blurred. His head pounded in agony, his bones, surely broken because nothing less could explain the fire of his blood and horrendous pain that consumed his body. Yelling out as he forced his arm to move, he reached for a blood vial, fighting the pain, and plunged the needle into his thigh. The new blood relieved him, reinvigorated him, and he was able to stand. But this time, the blood failed to rejuvenate his strength and energy, only serving to heal his broken body. He could not have that. He needed all the strength he could muster for this fight. So he took another vial and felt his strength grow and adrenaline overtake him. Growling out, he felt wonderfully inhuman.

The injured Marius was being protected by Bahorel, so Enjolras chose Bousset, who had separated himself from the other two. He stepped to grab Enjolras, but he deftly stepped out of his reach and proceeded to attack Bousset’s extended arms before going for his legs. As he attacked, Enjolras was careful to watch Bousset’s body and jumped back before Bousset could attack. Panting for breath, Enjolras stepped away, giving himself enough space from the Failures. He waited to see what they would do. Without warning, all three of them let out a screech and rose their arms up to the heavens, standing stock still as they looked up to the moon. Enjolras held his weapons tighter, bracing himself for whatever could happen. Shadows moved over the barricade, across the bloody pool, and touched him. Enjolras expected them to stop at him but they went over him instead and engulfed the Musain too. He then turned his attention to the sky, and clouds of smoke from the unburning fires of Paris stole away the moon.

But the darkness did not stop there. He could still see his hand in front of his face. But within the passing seconds the darkness grew and deepened until he could see nothing but pure black, the endless emptiness, and Enjolras felt his heart drop again. He could see nothing. Did the Failures see him? They must or else they would not have conjured such magic. And what could he do but twist and turn in the dark and hope to spy a flicker of red. But to lose one sense was to heighten another, and Enjolras could hear low clicking echoing in the blind void. They were there and he could hear them and the sloshing of watery blood from heavy footsteps. And then the sloshing quickened and Enjorlas knew what was coming but was too slow to react. Solidity collided with him, knocking him down on his back, and the clicking was louder now, erratic. He could feel them over him; he knew they were there. They could strike and kill him then and there, and he could feel himself panic. Fear took over him and he wished for the light. Feebly he swung his cleaver in hopes of deterring his attackers. Huffing and panting, franticly as a last attempted, he lifted his left arm and fired his pistol blindly, and in that spark, he saw the Failures’ shadowed figures. The low clucking became a sharp screech, and Enjolras swung his cleaver, feeling the teeth slice something in the dark. Scrambling to his feet, he pursued his attack, feeling the blade carve and tear, and then the pressure of it stopped entirely.

Enjolras stepped back and waited, listening for any noises the Failures might make. And then the everlasting blackness began to fade like rising smoke. He blinked and the darkness evaporated to allow the moonlight through. In front of him stood Marius who was hunkered over, holding his face. Instinctually, Enjolras charged at him and swing his cleaver into the face of the Failure. The monster did not scream out but gurgled and groaned and so easily did it give to Enjolras’s attacks until it finally collapsed at his feet and melted back into the pool.

He then turned his attention to Bahorel and Bousset, more confident and less afraid, and he raised his pistol. In, what seemed to be a moment of courage, Bousset ran at Enjolras, his hand a fist as he moved to attack him. Enjolras fired the pistol directly into Bousset’s face, and Bousset moaned and stepped back, his hands clasping his wounded face. Enjolras took the time then to attack him, cutting into him and that did not distract him from the pounding footsteps coming for him. Bahorel went to attack him and Enjolras jumped back, ready.

Bousset lifted himself up and stood beside Bahorel, and Enjolras did not shy away. With each attack on their part, Enjolras dodged and returned with his own. And when came close enough, who happened to be Bahorel, Enjolras again fired his pistol into his face. He gurgled out a shriek and stepped back, but Enjolras meant to finish this. He relentlessly swung his cleaver, digging and carving and tearing layers and layers of blood away until the Failure collapsed and, like Marius, melted back into the pool. 

Turning back to Bousset, Enjolras did not waste a moment to close the distance between them. He did not attack carelessly, very much so aware of the power of the Failure’s attack despite the dwindled numbers. Death was still in the back of his mind as the battle continued, and that guarded him even as Bousset was crumbling on the ground. His heart racing, he sliced into the Failure again and again until it finally surrendered, dying, and dissolved into the blood of the barricade. 

Enjolras panted deep breaths as he tried to recover himself. His body was sore and heavy, and he lolled his head back, closing his eyes in relief. He survived. But in his silence he was reminded of each death at his hands, the death of his friends and guilt did not let him be. All of them were his failures. Perhaps he had hoped this fight would set him free, the weight of his burden lessened now that he had rid them of further suffering. He could not say that it did. But then he remembered Feuilly’s proclamation, to kill Éponine. He opened his eyes to look up at the moon, staring at it wondrously before sighing and looking back at Feuilly’s corpse. What secret does this Éponine own, this woman that his memories revealed no connection to? Is it possible his memories were not fully restored then as he believed?

He would find out soon enough, he decided, and walked towards the Café Musain. He stood in front of the building, his feet no longer submerged in blood. This Musain of the Nightmare was large and looming, at least six stories high—although he could never be entirely sure—with slender windows and thick columns to support the foundation. Even the door was four feet taller than him. And yet, while the fires had overtaken the other rest of the buildings on this street, the Musain, like the barricade, remained untouched.

He felt small within the shadow the café as a sudden realization that he was to continue alone again dawned on him. But it was not fear that gripped his heart this time. No, for what more did he have to fear now that all of his friends were dead. But the shadow of the Musain was like a warning, he sensed, and he wondered what manner of beast Éponine was, and what else he might find in the café. He couldn’t wait. He walked over to the double doors and with both hands on either side, with the strength his body could muster, he forced open the doors. The heavy wood gave and groaned as it opened just enough to allow his entrance, and he walked, into the enveloping dark of the Café Musain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when I will post next. Still not finished with chapter 11. I will finish though!


	11. Chapter 11

Candles burned, illuminating the dark that threatened to swallow him. Moonlight too, shined through the large windows of the Musain, the silver glow guiding him as he slowly walked through the café. The ground floor of the Musain was far larger than that of his true Musain, and the overwhelming size of the café itself left him feeling strangely uncomfortable. Tables were overturned and chairs were scattered and broken. Bottles were shattered and not a single step he took escaped the subtle crunch and clink of glass. Silverware even littered the floor, plates and utensils and even bits of half eaten food. The deeper Enjolras walked, he began to notice drops of blood, burgundy, old with rot. The drops slowly turned to streaks of strewn blood and he followed it, meandering through the tables and chairs until he came to the bar. Stools no longer stood beneath it, but instead the flag of France draped over the bar. Blood stained the flag, splotches all across, and Enjolras found himself staring, his eyes trying to make sense of strange spots. A trick of the light perhaps, but his eyes did not lie. They were not nonsensical stains of blood. No, these stains took the shape of hands.

Enjolras swallowed, his skin crawling as he stared at the bloody handprints. They ranged from the size of adults to that of children and infants. He bristled, his expression transforming into a frown. Where were the bodies that owned those handprints? He investigated every section of the floor and found nothing but more of the same tables, chairs, and unknown blood. He found the backdoor at the very back of the Musain, its size considerably smaller than that of the front door he entered. It was an average sized door with windows that had been busted, and a large beam had been nailed across it, barricading it firmly shut. To the right of the door was the staircase, and Enjolras warily walked up it, his cleaver in hand, candles lighting his way.

His heartbeat slowed as he peered up at the second floor. The cool light of the moon spilled into the room at his back, and two candles lit the only table at the very center. Enjolras glanced about, expecting to find anything else, blood, bodies, a trap—and as he walked towards the table, the floorboards creaking with every step, silence did little to quiet his worries. He glanced at the papers that laid spread across the table, his eyes quickly scanning them until anxiety stole his attention to an echoing creak from above. The creaking went and then abruptly ceased, and Enjolras glanced back at the staircase that led up to the third floor. He waited but nothing came for him. He did not relinquish his hold on his weapons as he turned back to the paper on the table, his ears waiting for the faintest whisper. He stared down at the papers again, his eyes fixated on documents and maps, and then his eyes made sense of what he saw. They were battle plans, his battle plans for revolution, and the topmost page was a map of Paris. Sections of streets had been crossed out, black ink soaking the page and the section of the map that placed the Café Musain was circled. His lips parted with sudden terrible recognition. This map was the same one from the night before his rebellion died. He had crossed out the fallen barricades and his was the very last standing. This was when he knew his hope was lost.

The candles then extinguished themselves, the two twinkling flames evaporating in a snaking line of smoke. The moon, now brighter than it had any right to be, illuminated the room and enlarged his shadow, draping his surroundings in cool white light. And then his stomach dropped as the moonlight opened his eyes to the true nature of the room. Bodies lined the floor, their blood painted deep blue, nearly black—men, women, children, and every one of their eyes were open, glassed and hollow. And amongst those nameless citizens were the bodies of his friends.

Enjolras stepped back, his heel connecting with a corpse, and he staggered, foolishly collapsing back over the human mound. His stomach churned and his jaw tightened as his eyes met the face of a deceased child. Fumbling, he rose back up on his feet, his heart thudding wildly, and he could not help but stare out at the overwhelming sea of death until he could not bear it and shut his eyes. There they were yet again, Les Amis at his bloodied feet. Every one of them lay on that floor amongst the rest of the dead. He sucked in deep breaths, blood like acid within him, until he eased his breathing, his head bowed before calmly opening his eyes. His eyes passed the window to look at the staircase. Cautiously, he stepped over the bodies, meaning not to disturb them, and his feet finally touched the first stair to the third floor.

“Plip.”

Enjolras stopped, his hand tightening about the handle of the cleaver.

“Plop.”

He turned, his eyes scanning for the source until his eyes landed on a bloodied woman sitting upright against the wall adjacent to the window at the corner of the staircase that led to the first floor.  
“Plip. Plop. Plip. Plop.” Her voice echoed around the room.

 

Enjolras approached her, staring down at dark eyes that did not look at him. They were fixated on the liquid that seeped from the crack in the ceiling and dripped onto the floor beside her knee. It was blood.

“Plip, plop. Plip, plop.” She looked to be in a daze, as if she didn’t realize where or who she was. Enjolras could see the wounds on her chest that soaked her garments, and her pale skin was sickly gray in the moonlight.

Enjolras kneeled down, glancing over her face, her high forehead, elongated nose, concave cheeks, and chapped lips. Her thin, brown hair was tangled and matted with blood, a few strands draped diagonally across her face. 

She continued to mutter those two words, endlessly watching as the blood dripped beside her. He studied her eyes, the vacant black eyes and whispered, “Mademoiselle?”

Her eyes flashed, her stupor suddenly gone. Silver light reflected in them, and Enjolras watched as her eyes slowly looked up at him.

“Have you heard how curiously the sea churns?” She muttered, her voice somehow clearer than before, “Like a storm… But like the rain, only gentle, like dripping water. It bellows from deeeep inside of me. Here it comes!—Up through my insides,” As she spoke, blood seeped into her mouth until it spilled over, and a thin line of blood dripped down to her chin, “But gently, like little droplets…”

She slowly turned her head, glancing out the window, and Enjolras did not follow her gaze, his eyes fixed on hers.

“Everything seems so pale now…” She mumbled, her head leaning back against the wall.

She did not hiss out her last breath. A look of longing and peace, something so unfamiliar in the Nightmare, remained on her face instead. How fortunate she was to die in such a state. Enjolras sighed and rose to his feet, staring down at her a moment longer before returning to the stairs up to the third floor.

It was the size of a small bedroom. It smelled of mold and musk that he could taste on his tongue, and his nostrils curled. There were no windows to light the room, nothing to alleviate the smell and only a single torch on the wall. Beneath its light was a small bundle, a child, a boy, curled up on a thin, itchy blanket covering a heap of hay. The child’s back was to him, and he could hear the boy mumbling softly to himself.

His eyes widened and he felt a sharp twinge of guilt. How could he have not thought of him, after all this time? Not once did the child, his safety, his very face cross his mind. He resented himself for it. “Gavroche?”

The boy did not flinch at the sound of his name, at the voice Enjolras thought he would recognize. Gavroche remained on his side, muttering, and Enjolras walked up to him, his feet clomping against the dusty wood floor.

“Gavroche?” He leaned over the child, his heart aching to see his innocent face again.

Gavroche’s knees were tucked up to his chest as he clutched a silver pistol, the one he had begged Courfeyrac to use. He pressed the gun to his heart, his body curling into himself as he quaked and shivered, his voice a whisper. Enjolras might have missed it if it hadn’t been for the flame of the torch—the boy was bleeding. His position made it difficult to see, but Enjorlas saw the distinct shine of blood seeping from Gavroche’s chest, staining his hands and the pistol he held. The blood soaked through the blanket and hay and pooled deep crimson at Enjolras’s feet. He felt himself turn cold with despair.

The child’s eyes remained open, vacant, like that of the girl’s on the second floor, only blinking every so often out of habit it seemed, not necessity. He looked out into the dark of the room, at nothing, his murmurs unending.

Enjolras watched his thin, purple lips—deep and dark as the rings under his eyes—as they moved, and he could not make a word out of Gavroche’s mumbling. Enjolras went to his knees, Gavroche’s blood soaking his trousers. He did not care and immediately reached for a blood vial. As gently, tenderly as he could, he plunged the needle into the child’s lanky arm, depleting the blood and tossing the vial away. Enjolras was puzzled by Gravoche’s lack of reaction, but perhaps it was due to the state he was in. He chose to believe that was fact, sighing as he reached down to touch the remaining vials. “Only two left,” he thought. But the life of the child before him was more important. His sacrifice was not vainly wasted. 

He sat beside him, the moments becoming minutes, and he expected a change in Gavroche’s behavior. However, his hopes were dashed as Gavroche remained unfazed by the blood; his bleeding did not stop. Frustration and sorrow rendered Enjolras still as he sat beside him, for what more could he do?

As he sat, Enjolras began to question whether or not Gavroche was aware of his presence at all. He liked to believe the boy knew despite his maddened state. And the longer he waited, the more the blood flowed, slow and steady, and Enjolras wondered why the blood had failed him. He hated that he had no answer. Was Gavroche’s fate already sealed and death destined to come? How long had he been laying there, bleeding endlessly, all alone? Or, is it possible he was never meant to die at all, a perpetual bloody display of terror that his mind had created? Perhaps, this is the consequence of the Nightmare. Enjolras bitterly chuckled, “Only two more vials.”

The little boy’s quivering suddenly ceased. He began to shift, a stiff unfurling as he moved his limbs, his head and body following. He turned and faced Enjolras, his hands and the pistol dropping to his lap as he let the heels of his feet dip into the blood that pooled along the wood floor. He looked at Enjolras and the man held his breath. Drop by drop blood faithfully seeped from the wound at his chest, though Gavroche did not seem to mind as he stared up at Enjolras. His eyes, Enjolras saw, held more life than they had before, but somehow, retained an emptiness within them that could not be hidden. It mimicked, Enjolras noticed, the dark emptiness of the room, of the Musain, and it disturbed him. But then his lips began to move, his voice clear as it echoed within the confined space of the room.

Gavroche smiled, "Éponine, I’m a robin! Will I ever curl up and become an egg?”

Enjolras stared at him, perplexed, his lips parting in confusion as a frown lined his face. Gavroche’s look was earnest and his smile held despite the silence.

“What say you, dear sister?”

Enjolras stood to his feet, watching as Gavroche continued to look ahead, his head slightly turned, as if he were looking at a ghost or hallucination. Perhaps he truly thought he was speaking to Éponine.

“Éponine? Éponine? Say something, anything…”

Sorrow crept over the boy’s features, a sadness that came and distorted the life that only momentary existed within the child. Enjolras, having no response to give, watched as Gavroche, in his grief, turned his back to him. Gavroche returned to his original position on the pile of old hay and while Enjolras made effort to stir the boy, Gavroche made no motions of movement. His breathing was deep, as if in sleep, though his eyes remained open as he clasped tight the pistol, his shuddering renewed.

Enjolras stood over him, watching, waiting, hoping Gavroche would respond, but the longer he stood there, Enjolras began to realize that there was nothing left to the little boy. The boy, in fact, had nothing more of importance in his unnerving state, and Enjolras would waste no more time with the horrors that distorted those he loved within the Musain.

Across the room, a door revealed itself by the glow of the moonlight that managed to faintly shine through. He went to it, ready to continue, and placed a hand on the knob. Before he turned it, Enjolras glanced back at Gavroche, staring at the child that remained crumpled on the floor, a broken boy. When he could look at him no longer, Enjolras squared his shoulders and walked through the door.

He was greeted with a gust of wind and the perfume of flowers. A garden was laid out before him, a large stretch of grass, sunflowers, and roses from end to end of the Musain. He was no longer standing in a room, as the left and right walls no longer stood but seemed to have rotted and fell away as life somehow took over. Beams stood on the sides of the building, and vines wrapped around the remnants of what once were walls. The roof of the Musain had collapsed, this section above the garden no longer existing. Enjolras walked down the three stone steps into the garden, feeling the cool night breeze tossing the blond curls of his hair, the scent of flowers wrapping and twirling with the wind. He’d forgotten sweet smells, blood and death were all he seemed to know now. As he walked, he could hear the sudden tolling of a bell, a deep and low song, and a chill crawled up his spine as Feuilly came to mind. He stopped, standing in the middle of the garden and looked out across both sides of Paris in hopes of spying the bell tower. His search resulted in nothing but an endless horizon of buildings and no bell tower. Was the ringing only in his head? The clangor was as clear as the night sky and sounded only blocks away. Enjolras, knowing nothing could be done about it, counted the tolls and continued walking. 

Across the garden, the rest of the third floor of the café still stood. The soft soil and grass of the garden turned into the same hard wood floor of the café, the tall walls of the building stood, and the ceiling ascended to a form a slender A-shaped roof. He could no longer feel the wind within the confines of the half-destroyed room, but he was glad for the scent of flowers. Candle stands on both sides of the room lit his way along with the meager moonlight that shined through the large, dust-fogged windows. At the very end of the large room, Enjolras could see a figure sitting upright in a chair. And behind that figure was the great window that took the shape of broken clock.

As Enjolras crossed the room—a broad expanse as far-reaching as the garden—he studied the person in the chair, the one he assumed to be Éponine. She was dressed in a tattered, tan trench coat, an aged, off-white chemise littered with holes, and deep brown trousers and shoes faded by time. A russet, newsboy’s cap adorned her head and in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, rested a leather-bound, pale hand. She looked like a poor-woman queen perched upon her unseemly throne. Enjolras expected her to move, to speak upon his arrival, but as he came to stand in front of her, he realized the reason for her silence. Her head was lolled to the side, her other hand dangling lifelessly beside the armrest. Her skin was unnaturally pale and beneath her chair was a large pool of blood and a long, bloodstained sword. She was already dead.

The bell ceased its tolling, and Enjolras counted twelve low chimes.

Enjolras sheathed his pistol and peered down at the face beneath the cap. Éponine looked like someone he knew, her pale skin, dark lips, eyelashes, and rings under her eyes. But he could not be sure and a mad curiosity consumed him. He reached forward, eager to tear the cap from her head. Instead, Éponine’s hand snatched his wrist, and his eyes widened in surprise as she pulled him to her, her body suddenly endowed with life. 

Her face leaned close to his, her shadowed russet eyes glassed, and said, “A corpse… Should be left well alone.”

Enjolras pulled his arm away with ease as she relinquished her hold. He stepped back, gripping his cleaver and pistol and watched as she took her weapon that rested beside her chair. She stood, lifting her sword, a long, slender saber with a dagger latched into the hilt of the handle.

“Oh, I know very well,” she said to him. “How the secrets beckon so sweetly…”

Enjolras stepped back again as she walked up to him. His adrenaline spiked, and he breathed deeply, eyeing her intently, wondering still what truth she kept from him.

“Only an honest death will cure you now.” Éponine said as she clasped her blade in both hands. With a forceful yank, she unlatched the dagger from the hilt of the sword, transforming the great blade into a dual weapon, “Liberate you, from your wild curiosity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter that I dearly love. The next chapter will be another wait! At least you got to offically meet her though!


	12. Chapter 12

Enjolras kept his distance from her, eyeing her long saber, wondering how she planned to attack him. Éponine looked neither blood-drunk nor mad, and he’d yet to face a rational enemy. His heart pounded with adrenaline and concern though he did not let his features show it.

There was a ferocity in her eyes, a look of determination that matched his own and that chilled him. As she stepped forward, he stepped back, his eyes glancing from her sword and dagger to her face, but neither her expression nor body language gave her away. He tightened his jaw, hating the uncertainty, especially knowing that he only had two vials left. As strong as he was, he’d make the fight quick, he was sure of it.

Enjolras moved as she did, watching her light strides, the bounce of her walk, her calm composure as she approached him. She then lunged at him, thrusting her saber with the intent to strike, but Enjolras dodged her attack. He swung at her but she was just as quick, and escaped the teeth of his cleaver. She moved with the air that took her and struck with a ferocity that burned within her eyes. Her blade sank into the flesh on his upper arm, and Enjorlas hissed and stepped back. He glanced at the wound, spying the red, and quickly turned back at Éponine whose fixed expression remained unwavering. Enjorlas glared at her, the blood in his veins like scolding fire. He swung the cleaver, elongating the blade, and he rushed for her. He raised his weapon and swung, but before he could complete the motion, the woman rolled beneath his arm. She sliced her dagger into Enjolras’s side, and he staggered, gasping out as he pressed a hand to the wound. She persisted and he felt himself panic, and when she went to cut him again, Enjolras swung his cleaver with the strength he could conjure. Éponine gasped, a sharp, shrill sound, and her cap fell to the ground, letting lose raven hair. She stepped back, cupping her cheek, and Enjolras quickly took a blood vial and injected it into his thigh.

Warmth took over his senses, and he straightened, his muscles aching with inhuman strength as his wounds healed. This will be quick, he reminded himself, and eagerly watched as Éponine removed her hand from her face. A lovely line of crimson dripped like petals from that angry cut and her jaw clenched.

Enjolras wasted no time and rushed at her, his cleaver cutting into the air as he transformed the blade back into the short-ranged, swifter version. Its teeth tore passed her clothing and ate into her flesh, tearing away skin and blood. But she, like the rest of his friends, was much stronger than anticipated. One strike or multiple would not be enough to end her, Enjolras knew better. He persisted as she had, delivering blow after blow and his heart raced with a barrage of butterflies. And as the bloody strikes were driven into her body, Éponine groaned in pain and relinquished her hold on her saber. Enjolras heard it clatter to the floor, and he knew had her. He went to strike her again, the one to end her for good, but as he brought his cleaver down, she flipped her dagger in her left hand, the blade protecting the fatal veins in her wrist. The serrated blade of the cleaver locked with her dagger and for an instance, Enjolras saw her smile. She then grabbed his right wrist with her free hand. She spun, pulling him to her and securing herself in the crook of his arm, and he could feel her back against his front. Before he could think to react, with the dagger still in her left hand, she leaned down and buried the blade into his lower back at his kidney. He screamed out and she kicked him in the abdomen, forcing the air from his lungs as she sent him back.

Enjolras hissed and groaned, huffing and growling as he pressed his hand to into the gaping wound. Sweat trickled at his forehead and he barred his teeth, seething. Éponine picked up her saber with calm dignity that sickened him. They locked eyes with each other and as Éponine stepped to approach him, he raised his pistol and fired at her. The bullet flew passed her and Enjolras could not be sure if he had truly missed his mark or if she had dodged it. She ran at him and he elongated his saw cleaver again and raised his arm. She rolled beneath his swing and sunk her dagger into the pit of his arm. The muscles of his hand and arm gave and he lost his hold on the cleaver. The weapon hit the wood floor with a heavy clang, and that was when Éponine drove her sword into his chest. 

Enjolras could only groan, his strength a fleeting thing, and he felt he had been deceived by the vial he had taken. He did not know when he dropped his pistol, only aware of the absence of its weight. He could feel the blood welling up in his throat as the pain sent his body into terrible shock. His knees threatened to give out, and Éponine did not pull the sword from him. He stared at her, gasping, waiting for her to end him, and instead she smiled. Enjolras glared at her as his vision began to blur and senses dulled. She leaned in close, wrapping her left arm about him. Éponine embraced him, her lips, her breath at his ear. She smelled of the flowers in the garden, or perhaps a breeze had blown the scents in. She held him still as she pulled the sword from him, and Enjolras gasped out which sounded like relief. Her dark eyes stared down at him and they were the last he saw as he fell to the ground, the chill and the dark taking him back to the Hunter’s Dream.

~

His vision wavered, flickers of color eclipsed by darkness. He could hear a woman’s laugh, a gentle ring that thrilled him though he did not understand why. He blinked slowly, the shadowed colors clearing slightly as he made sense of a blur of warm light in the dark. He blinked again and the scene before him shifted to something else entirely, a garden and a woman. This scene too was just as blurry as the first, the colors muddled and faded. Her back was to him, that he was sure, her black hair let loose to kiss her shoulders and back; her dress—now he could see more clearly—was a velvet mirror of the roses that grew beside her. His vision faded again, and he felt helpless to it as he watched his own memories, subjected to what his mind was willing to reveal and blind to the rest. Whatever his mind could relinquish was a secret to him and Enjolras felt a prisoner within himself. He was returned to the dark scene and the warm light. He recognized a burning candle on a nightstand to his left beside him, and he felt the soft fabric of a bed under his knees. His eyes slowly moved to spy glistening pale skin but he could not force the eyes to move as he wished, trapped within the memory. The skin, he saw, was a shoulder, bony and frail, and he could see a small portion of the arm that disappeared into the dark edges of his vision.

He watched as the scene transformed back to the woman in the garden. She was much closer now, her back still to him as the wind took her hair. Enjolras could see her ear, the side of her face, and noticed the lone sunflower she was staring at which grew amongst the roses. Frustration ate through his limbs, his stomach, his chest, and his mind screamed for clarity. He heard a voice speak, his own voice, and only then did he realize he had moved his mouth; yet, he hadn’t heard the words he himself had spoken. It should have scared him, this bizarre sensation of feeling not truly within his own body, but, with each step closer to her, the more he felt his own reclamation. And then, to his relief, the woman before him moved, turning to look at him and his heart leaped up into his throat. But this was a different feeling, not one driven by fear or horror or disgust. No, what he felt was joy and something else, something brighter.

He knew the face, knew the woman who stood before him, and knew the feelings and the memories that danced from her presence.

“Éponine,” was the word he had uttered and she had turned upon hearing his voice.

She smiled at him now, lifting a rose to greet her lips, “Mon coeur.”

Éponine smiled at him and he smiled back, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. She leaned into his hand, pressing her lips into his palm, and upon lovely Éponine’s face, his vision shimmered and melted, returning him back to the dark room. She lay beneath him in this memory, a look of ecstasy in her expression, her hair matted across her face. And he realized then what that something else was, and he thought his heart full enough to burst. She gripped his arm, her nails biting in to his skin, her voice singing with his name, and he leaned down—finally in control of himself within his memories—and he kissed her, wrapping his hands into her obsidian hair, his tongue tasting her name, “Éppie.”

Enjolras’s eyes opened then, his eyes glancing over the tombstones, the grass, the garden, feeling the cool mist on his skin, and the scent of earth. He moved, shifting as he realized that he was lying face down on the cobblestone path and before him stood porcelain laced in velvet. He looked up, finally seeing the face that he’d been missing for so long.

“Éponine.” He breathed.

She did not smile, her expression unwavering emptiness, and she stepped closer to him before sliding to her knees. He stared into her face, her eyes of russet glass, and she presented her hand to him. He glanced at it, the joints that connected her fingers, and he noticed how akin her doll’s hand was to bone. Regardless, he took it, his heart leaping to know her touch, and she helped him up to stand.

“Éponine,” he said again in disbelief.

“Enjolras,” she replied somberly.

His heart skipped a beat, or perhaps it stopped entirely for he felt himself go cold. Sudden shame and guilt began to fester and eat him hollow. How could he have forgotten her so entirely? His heart then remembered itself, sending his blood into an overwhelming frenzy and his limbs began to shake, his mind and body like shattered glass. His throat worked, burning as he swallowed, and he could not move despite himself, though he yearned to touch her, to feel her, to hold her in his arms. But he feared he’d break at her touch. And yet, he’d welcome it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his eyes burning.

She shook her head, “You would remember, sooner or later.”

He blinked, tears spilling over, “I’d forgotten you, Éponine. And you have been with me the entire time.”

The Doll smiled then, a look of grief and longing. “I have. But I’m not your Éponine.”

Enjolras blinked, his lips parting. But of course, how could a doll be his Éponine, and yet, he hated the words still. His mind recalled moments with her, when he longed for her company, for the security of the Hunter’s Dream. This Éponine who was kind and reassuring, gentle and tender despite the distance she kept from him. And then he thought of the woman of the Musain, the same face and an utter contrast. 

Enjolras hesitated, testing the words in his mouth. “The Éponine of the Nightmare… She’s so drastically different.”

“Two parts of a fractured soul, one that cannot be reclaimed in this world.”

“Please, speak plainly,” he said, swallowing hard, his voice soft. “No more secrets. I’ve remembered it all. Surely this time, haven’t I?”

The Doll’s silence was his answer and he bristled.

“How many more times must I die? What else must I do?”

The Doll paused before answering, “Feuilly was right.”

His lips parted and his eyes widened as blood drained from his face, turning his skin ashen. His imagination betrayed him, presenting him an Éponine slathered with blood, a gaping maw of a wound, and empty eyes, a true corpse in the Nightmare. He imagined the voice, the smile, the touch of the real Éponine Thénardier, memories of her that filled his heart with love and longing, his true Éponine that the Dream reinvented as the Doll and the Nightmare twisted into a living corpse.

He shook his head, “No. I can’t. I won’t. I’ll save her.”

The Doll watched him, his body violently shaking again, his frantic expression, and listened to the plea within his cracking of his voice.

“Enjolras,” she said gently, “The Nightmare is more than what you are. It is not one for you to manipulate. You cannot save her as you could not save your friends.”

He steeled himself at the mention of his friends. He gritted his teeth, “I have to try.”

She nodded, “I know.” She paused, glancing down at her hands, the jointed fingers that disappeared underneath the opposite hand she held and then looked back up at him. “But she is not your Éponine, just as I am not.”

Enjolras saw the sorrow those words brought the Doll, and grief encased him, leaving him cold. He remembered her words, “Would you ever think to love me?” and he remembered the same despair in her eyes. He did, didn’t he? And as he looked at her, he saw his Éponine and for an instant, despite such shared melancholy, he felt his heart warm. Neither the Doll nor the one of the Nightmare were his beloved Éponine, but he could not help the feelings they both invoked.

“You must go,” she said.

“I’ll stay a moment more.” He replied, his voice now stern with conviction.

He breathed deeply, finding himself stronger, more assure though never really ready. Damn whatever secret, as long as he could spare Éponine’s life. He failed his friends, but he refused to fail her.  
The Doll did not look at him now, staring off into the garden. Enjolras closed the space between them, stealing her attention, and he saw her glistening eyes. He wondered then if she could cry. He lifted his hand and tenderly stroked her cheek, and her lips parted at his touch. He leaned in and he thought perhaps to kiss her, but instead pressed his cheek against her opposite, feeling the cool, smooth sensation of porcelain. He closed his eyes, sighing into her, wishing then the Dream would unburden his heavy heart.

“I’ll save you both.” He whispered.  
He forced himself to part from her, turning his back and going to the headstone. He spied the new words beneath “Paris Graveyard” that read “Musain Barricade”. He touched them without a final glance at the Doll, feeling her eyes on him, watching him as he vanished from the Dream. 

There were no parting words this time though he listened for them dearly even now that he had returned to the Nightmare. The glow and the sight of the moon rendered him motionless. The silver light had transformed and the blood moon replaced the cool glow. And the light of the blood moon overtook his surroundings, saturating the colors into hues and shades of red all around him.

Enjolras blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the harsh, unrelenting color. He stood in the pool of blood, his back to the barricade, staring up at the café Musain. He breathed out, knowing she was waiting for him. For a moment, he closed his eyes before glancing at the lantern at his side. He swallowed, his hands twitching. But he would not take hold his weapons. He would return to her with no intention of a threat. He would save her before the night was through.


	13. Chapter 13

Enjolras made his way back up through the Musain, and upon reaching the second floor, his eyes glanced over at the madwoman that had spoken to him before she died. He recognized her now, his memories retrieving for him the same familiar melancholy expression, one that matched her sister’s.

“Azelma,” he whispered, his heart going out to her.

Staring at the body slumped against the wall, Enjolras wondered what had brought her to such a state. Azelma had been kind to him in his reality, grateful to him for taking care of her elder sister. He cursed the Nightmare, and continued up, returning to the little room and the looming dark and the little boy on the bed. Gavroche had remained where he was, unmoving despite his quivering, and Enjolras thought that perhaps he had died. But the closer he came to the child, he could then hear his mutterings. Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to listen to the fragile voice that emitted from the broken body before him. Did the Nightmare hope to torment him with a creature neither dead nor living and in a perpetual state of despair and disbelief? Enjolras could not break Gavroche of his unclear reality. Did he have the heart to set him free? Would the Nightmare allow it?

Enjolra stooped down, staring at the little face that brought so many memories. His heart beat was slow, a quiet pang with every thud, and he placed his hand on the child’s face. Gavroche’s skin was cold, stone in the shadow, and he did not respond to the warmth of Enjolras’s hand. Enjolras took a breath, forced himself not to hesitate and unlatched the blade from his gauntlet. The blade sunk into Gavroche’s throat, and Enjolras expected a reaction. However, there was no hitch in Gavroche’s voice, no gurgled groan, no sigh of relief, not even a flinch. There was nothing from the boy even as Enjolras removed the blade and blood seeped from his throat. Enjolras watched and waited and hoped to see the boy become a corpse, to end his suffering and, in turn, selfishly, end a faction of Enjolras’s own suffering.

But as he watched and as he waited, Enjolras felt his heartbeat quicken then slow with the time that silently stilled too. Gavroche continued to shiver and the blood continued to flow, and he did not die as Enjolras had anticipated. Enjolras breathed out, his fingertips tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck on end, hating what the Nightmare had made just for him. He stepped back, glancing about the dark room before looking back at Gavroche. He gritted his teeth and glared at the boy, the manifestation of the Nightmare, and turned his back to him, going for the door.

The bells began to ring again as Enjolras opened the door, and the scents of the garden invited him back as the cool wind blew over the Musain. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed him in view of the garden, the same flowers of his memories now tainted unholy crimson by the light of the moon. And in the garden Éponine stood, her weapons in hand as she had been waiting.

“Moon-scented hunter,” Éponine spoke. “Return to me again and again, and I’ll stop you. The secret is mine to maintain, and I’ll prolong the night as I must to preserve it.”

“Éponine,” Enjolras said, raising his hands, beseeching. “Please, I have not come to fight.”

She smirked, “You’ll water my garden with blood you’ll endlessly shed.”

“Éponine, please! Remember me, remember who I am, who you are! You don’t have to kill me.”

“I remember well enough, Enjolras, and it matters not.” She returned evenly, stepping forward.

The bells ceased after twelve long chimes, but Enjolras did not know it, unable to escape the pounding in his ears that her words had summoned. He stared at her and could not bring himself to move even as she approached him. Before him all he could see was the woman of his memories, the woman that incited feelings that hindered his process of thought, and she who meant to kill him. And as the Doll reminded him, neither were one of the same, but he could not bring himself to separate fact and fiction, even as Éponine buried in saber into and through his gut.

He stared at her, into her dark, dark eyes, but he did not see himself in the reflection of them. “Éppie…” He uttered, faint and weak like a far away cry.

She did not look upon him in his dying moments with any change of expression, with any look of care or empathy. She stared at him with the eyes of indifference, as one would look upon an insect, an ant, a gnat. And as she let him drop back, her blade drinking his blood, his body collapsed on the earth, he saw her silhouette against the red moon. He choked and coughed up crimson, shuddering out his last, and Éponine and the moon turned to black.

Enjolras reawakened again in the Hunter’s Dream, fear, disbelief, despair taking hold of him that he did not stop for the Doll. He darted for the headstone and touched it to swiftly return back to the Nightmare. He could not comprehend that his promise could not be fulfilled, that he could do nothing to save the woman of the Nightmare and the woman of the Dream. He’d refuse to accept it, that Éponine’s death was his only option. He’d die a thousand times before harming her again; let the Nightmare give in to him. Let his Éponine burst through the corpse that resolved to end him. He’d set free the corpse and the Doll; he had to or there was nothing left of him.

He returned to the garden atop the Musain, his insides twisting and burning and rotting. The bells sang twelve somber bellows, traveling with the breeze, and there she stood, both blades in her hands while he came with nothing.

“Éponine…”

She said nothing, approaching him again as the bells beat their endless toll.

He remained rooted to the earth. “Don’t…”

She echoed no reply, the inferno of Paris within her eyes as her footsteps crunched and sunk into the dirt and grass on the garden, the sound of it rippling through him.

“Please, Éponine,” his voice cracked, eyes stinging. “You’re my—”

With a flick of her wrist she slit his throat before he could finish. He wheezed, his arteries cut and eyes widening as blood rushed from his throat. He reached up to wrap his fingers about the gaping wound. He croaked out her name, watching as she walked away. He collapsed, feeling himself grow cold, spurting blood before he died.

Enjolras returned again and again, pleading, beseeching, and she murdered him again and again. She cut him to pieces, brutally stabbed him, decapitated him, dismembered him, and willingly, desperately, he came back to her. And each death brought him lower, chipping away at what little hope he had. What more could he do against her unwavering will? She would hear nothing of his pleas, his declarations. And the Doll watched in agony as he continuously returned to the Dream, as he returned choking and coughing in utter pain and despair. She begged him to see reason, but Enjolras saw nothing but the Éponine from his Paris. “I’ll save them both,” his heart screamed, but his mind knew otherwise no matter how hard he fought to deny it.

He went to her again, any hope he once had lost to him. Instead of watching the blood-drunk woman before him, he closed his eyes, seeing a smile against pale skin and obsidian eyes to match her hair. This was his that neither the Nightmare nor the Dream could reach, his memories of Éponine Thénardier that calmed his heart and eased his mind. And yet, he felt himself chill at the thought of her, feeling how dearly he missed her warmth, her touch. He yearned for her, more than anything her affection to wake him from this torturous hell. It was the Nightmare’s Éponine who stole him from his thoughts with the kiss of her saber. He died with the Éponine’s smile reflecting in his eyes.

“Enjolras, please.” The Doll pleaded as he awoke again in the Hunter’s Dream.

Enjolras wheezed and coughed, tears dripping from his eyelids as he stood to his feet. “One more time,” he thought to himself, the same words he had thought time and time again. He mustn’t stop, not now. His body ached with sorrow and longing.

Back in the Nightmare, the corpse of Éponine was unrelenting in her purpose, just as ruthless as their very first encounter. She attacked him and this time, instead of giving in to her, he watched her blade and dodged her attack. Weaponless, he was careful to keep both her sword and dagger at bay, maneuvering around her attacks. But for all his caution, she learned as he did, and with her dagger she cut into his upper arm. He hissed but did not step back, seeing his opportunity as she pulled back her left arm to add more power to her right-handed swing. At this he grabbed her right wrist and twisted her entire arm, straining the muscles and stressing the bones to break. Éponine grunted but did not give. Enjolras knew that if he pressured his hold he would break her arm. His hesitation cost him and she sunk her dagger into his abdomen. He groaned, the pain coursing through him like liquor through a drunkard. But his fight wasn’t over. This wasn’t what he wanted. He stared into Éponine’s eyes, malice as sharp as her blade cutting through him. He could not care, not now, not when all he wanted was her touch. He kissed her, and he realized then just how cold her purple lips were. It was a bloody kiss of teeth, metal, and salt. It was hard and desperate and empty and cold all at once, and even as a line of red seeped from his mouth, he refused to pull away. The black and the Dream called to him. Éponine sang his name in his mind, lulling him into the dark. It was in his death that he was pulled from her lips, collapsing before her in a heap.

Enjolras awoke again in the Dream, the Doll standing before him with the same melancholy expression.

“Must you torture yourself so with an endeavor that bares no fruit?” The Doll said.

Enjolras stood, the cool scent of the garden filling his lungs but the taste of blood lingered.

“What more can I do?” He muttered to the breeze.

The Doll stepped forward, her footsteps clicking from the cobblestone to rustle in the grass of the garden. She touched his hand and he smiled lightly, bitterly. Her porcelain hand was cold as bone.

“You must keep going.”

Enjolras stared into her eyes, the same ebony eyes, and his heart ached again. He pulled his hand from hers and stepped back. The Doll’s lips parted, and she glanced down at her own hands before lacing her fingers together in front of her. The breeze picked up and tossed her hair and grief overcame him as he watched her.

“She is not your Éponine. She exists to preserve the secret your mind has locked away,” the Doll said. “What stays your hand?”

Enjolras turned from her, glancing over the flowers of the garden. He wondered if this garden was one he had known before the Dream, if it was pulled from his memories to bring comfort in the Dream. The throat of a rose budded with tongues of petals and in his mind, Éponine who regarded him with joy, with tenderness, with affection, bloomed.

“I remember my days shared with Éponine. But I do not know what has become of her. I cannot recall if I saw her before the revolution. I—” He paused, gritting his teeth. Unbearable thoughts sent him into a panic, and his hands began to shake. He struggled to swallow the lump in his throat before turning back to the Doll. “I’m afraid. There is something I cannot remember, and it terrifies me. If I kill that Éponine, what if I lose my Éponine as well?”

The Doll stepped closer, so close their bodies nearly touched, and stared up into his eyes, “You will never lose the woman of your memories. She stays with you as long as you live. But you cannot truly live, not in masked truth.”

“Everyone I love is gone.” Enjolras muttered miserably, “This half-truth is all I have left.”

The Doll blinked and frowned with the hurt she could not hide, her eyes shimmering with sadness. “You have me.”

Enjolras glanced down at her hands again, the hands of a doll, and looked back up into the face that mimicked Éponine’s. He forced a smile, a quick twitch of his lips that was easily missed. The Doll sighed deeply of sorrow and longing, and Enjolras, to comfort himself and the Doll, placed a kiss upon her brow. He lips pressed for longer than a moment, and his heart thudded slower, his thoughts etherizing him.

After some time in the Dream with the Doll, Enjolras forced himself to return to the Hunter’s Nightmare. This time, with his weapons in hand, he climbed the Musain. He stood before her again in the middle of the garden, the moonlight illuminating the life with red, and the bells sang their damned song. In spite of spying the weapons he had previously rejected, Éponine said nothing, gripping her blades as she had done countless times before. Enjolras tightly clutched his saw cleaver and pistol, and a breeze sent such a chill up his spine he feared he’d go numb. He watched her has she moved, the sway of her body and how her trench coat flowed behind her. Her hair was let loose, no longer contained by her hat she had haphazardly left sitting in the open room from their first battle. Her eyes were, too, just as they always were, determined, ferocious, and pitiless. Enjolras breathed out and reached down to touch his belt, feeling for vials. “One more left,” he uttered to himself.

“I don’t want to do this,” Enjolras said.

Éponine did not say anything, stepping toward him.

“I love you, Éppie.” He spoke the words softly, more to himself than to her, but still he wondered if the wind carried the words far enough for her to hear.

It did not matter for it was Éponine who attacked first. She swung with all her strength, which Enjolras could no doubt feel as he blocked with the blunt of his cleaver. But he was ready, he could manage, having dodged against her attacks and died to them plenty of times to know her favorite movements. He pushed her off of him before she could sneak her dagger into whatever part of him that was vulnerable. They moved together like a dance, whatever step she took, he took back, she attacked, and he dodged and came back with his own. She twisted and turned, grunting with the force of her attacks, her eyes never leaving his.

How long had it been? How long had they been hacking away at each other? Enjolras’s muscles ached, his lungs gasping and burning for reprieve, his gaping wounds oozing red with unbridled pain, his body begging for that last vial. Éponine stood before him, her body slouched ever so slightly, blood dripping like a trickling stream from her wounds. She hardly seemed to breathe, but Enjolras could see her limbs shaking, as if this living corpse was struggling to fight against death again. He eyed the wound he had given her at her side right at her ribs and the muscle of her abdomen. She was weak, but he too could feel his strength waning.

He stared into her unwavering eyes, the look of determination that now flickered with wild madness. Was she afraid of dying? Or was it the secret that he threatened to expose? Opposite of the cut on her cheek, a line of blood trickled from her lip, and he knew if he stared any longer, he would not be able to bring himself to kill her. She growled, her teeth and gums tinted lightly red, and he was grateful that she charged at him first. He tightened his hold on his weapons and stepped back to brace himself as fired his pistol. The bullet struck—he knew it, he saw it—a quick hit, the spot of blood, and the way her shoulder flicked back like an itch. But she did not stop her sprint, and Enjolras frowned but did not let his mild surprise stop him. He raised his cleaver and stepped to the right just before she swung her saber. She pivoted, turning her body to complete her swing, and Enjolras wasted no time. He smacked the serrated edge against her saber, her blade locking into his cleaver. He expected the coming of her dagger and dropped his pistol and snatched her wrist to hold back her left-handed stab. With a hard yank, he tore the saber from her hand with the force of his cleaver, and it dropped just to the right of their struggle.

His heart hammered, eyes dilated as he huffed through his nose. This was it; he was going to kill her. Éponine’s smile flashed through his mind and his heart almost stopped then. He thought he heard this Éponine whisper “please”, a quiet plea for her life and for a moment, he hesitated. The woman before him swiftly moved, raising her free right hand to strike and jab him precisely into his throat. Enjolras grunted and relinquished her left wrist, staggering back in severe pain as he clasped his throat. He wheezed and coughed, his eyes burning, and he looked up to see her coming towards him again. He raised his cleaver, his last defense. Éponine evaded his attack with ease and jabbed her blade into his forearm, tearing through ligaments and muscles and arteries. Enjolras groaned, and his hand lost its grip on the cleaver. She pulled out the blade, his arm gushing blood. Éponine smirked and went to strike his gut. Instinctively, Enjolras dodged to the right, over and passed his cleaver, escaping the reach of her dagger. But in his weakened state, his legs tangled beneath him and he foolishly fell, smacking into earth and grass. Enjolras could feel himself begin to panic; Éponine would waste no time in finishing him. Lifting his head, he saw her saber within his reach and he could hear her footsteps just behind him. He grabbed the sword but before he could turn himself over, she was upon him, her knee on his back.

She sunk her blade into his back, the dagger cutting through flesh, muscle, and bone. Enjolras screamed, tears welled in his eyes and he could feel something thick and wet crawling up his throat. She tore the blade from his back, searing pain raking through him and he huffed, his mind dizzy. He grit his teeth, waiting for another struck, and as soon as he felt her move to plunge the dagger again, he jostled her, twisting beneath her to raise his elbow. He watched as his elbow connected with her jaw, and a hard snap and click resulted from the force of the strike. Her head flung back, and Enjolras moved quickly. While she was unbalanced and with her sword in his hand, he went to his knees and placed his left hand on her right shoulder. He stepped about her as they stood together, his left arm now about both shoulders and the crook of his arm secured her throat. He stood behind her, hiding himself from her dagger as he held her tight, and he buried his face into her ebony tresses, closing his eyes. He raised her sword over them both and she struggled all the more. He did not give her the chance to escape, hesitated no longer, and rammed the sword into her. The sword went through her chest and out her back, the blade long enough to stab into Enjolras as well.

Éponine screamed, a shrill shriek of pain and despair. Enjolras grunted and groaned, biting his bottom lip, tears springing from his closed eyes. The pain was overwhelming, but Éponine’s screams were killing him. And then her screams died out, her lungs lost for capacity, and he could hear her soft dying groans. Blood snaked up his throat, and he found it difficult to breath. He could feel the blood then drip from his mouth and he realized then how cold his body had turned. He was dying. He pulled the sword from them both and he watched as she fell forward, collapsing into the garden. Enjolras stood above her, panting, holding his chest. He quickly went for his last blood vial and plunged the needle into his thigh. He gasped in relief, the blood strengthening him, and he watched Éponine, waiting, almost hoping to see her move again. But the dagger had fallen from her hand, and there she lay, limp against the earth, her eyes closed to the glory of the blood moon. Blood seeped and seeped from her, and she no longer stirred.

Enjolras threw away the saber, his chest heaving, a bloodied hole in his chemise and healing wounds. He then fell to his knees, tears mixing with the blood on his face and reached down to touch Éponine’s face. She was cold and sickly pale against the crimson on her face. He scooped her up in his arms and took her face to rest it against his body. He shuddered, his body trembling, unable to freely breathe as he surrendered to his grief. Bitterly, he wept, clutching her to him, and wished, more than anything, a death for himself.


	14. Chapter 14

He sat with her. He sat even after his limbs had gone numb, and he could not bring himself to move. He sat long after his tears dried and he could no longer mourn. He sat, stroking her hair, her face, no longer able to look at her. He stared up at the scarlet moon as he held her in his arms. He did not condemn himself or her. He did not curse the Nightmare. He just stared up at the moon, unable to think, to feel, wishing and wanting nothing, knowing anything more was all in vain. The wind blew through his hair and he closed his eyes, waiting, listening, smelling the scent of the flowers that came with the breeze. He remembered then of the Doll in the Dream and thought perhaps that he should return to her. He glanced back at Éponine, motionless and cold in his arms. Gently, he placed her in the garden and fixed her body to make her appear at peace. He realized how morbid she looked lathered in blood, but what more could he do? He plucked a rose from the throat of the bush and in her leather-bound hand that rested on her chest, he placed the flower. He then stroked her cheek before standing to his feet, staring down at her for a moment before glancing about for the gentle glow of the lantern.

He frowned, unable to spot it. He stepped around her, heading back towards the Musain for the lantern below, but then he stopped and remembered. There was a secret he needed to uncover. He thought it would be revealed to him as his deaths against his friends had done. But this time, perhaps, it was something he needed to uncover. Abandoning his weapons and the woman in the garden, he decided to start in the three-walled room and went back to Éponine’s throne. The seat of the chair was bloodied, he noticed, and the pool of blood beneath remained wet and fresh. He did not understand how it hadn’t dried and simply assumed it was a trick of the Nightmare. He walked back behind the chair and stared at the large clock window. He noticed then that he hadn’t heard the chiming of the bells since he returned atop the Musain what felt like ages ago. Nonetheless, as he stared at the window, his eyes followed the line of a glass-embedded crack down between the hands and to the bottom of the window. His eyes continued down to rest upon a box sitting quietly atop six solemn steps.

His brow furrowed, bemused by the steps and the box he hadn’t seen before. He walked up them and stood before the tiny box. The box, the box, the box—his eyes widened and heart hammered, bile churning in his stomach and up his esophagus. The little box was a coffin, a coffin for an infant, and upon it rested a single wilted sunflower.

His head ached as if it were to split. He gasped from the pain, sickened and dry heaved as devastating emotions clasped at his heart and mind. He felt despair that clutched his throat and meant to swallow him, rage that burned beneath his skin, terror that froze him so that any touch would shatter him. He’d rather the bite of a blade than this, death and death again than the disease of emotion that pained him just as greatly as when he plunged the sword through dear Éponine.

The world seemed to shake beneath him as if all were beginning to collapse to ruin. Perhaps his mind meant to disorientate him as his feelings were to destroy him. The light of the moon overtook the window, enveloped the garden, distorted the crumbling hall, and Enjolras thought he’d gone blind by the ruby moonlight. It was all about him, nothing but red light, and somehow, it managed to ease his qualms despite the tears that welled in his eyes.

“Enjolras…” came a calm, kind voice.

He knew that voice and he turned within the red, looking for the source.

“Éponine,” he whispered back, desperate.

He saw her red silhouette, and he ran to her, unable to keep up with his feet. He embraced her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Tears dripped from his eyes as he clasped her, feeling her warmth, the soft fabric of her dress, of her skin, of her hair. And then the lovely sent of her turned rancid, like rot and Enjolras looked into her face only to see her smile twist and warp. Éponine began to bleed suddenly from an unknown source, until that was all she was. She melted in his arms, her physical form becoming blood and a pool at his feet. But before he could feel such mortification, a scream of pain echoed through the crimson light.

Enjolras turned toward the source and the walls of red faded away like sunlight cutting through mist. He stood within a darkened room that smelled of musk, chemicals,  and blood. He recognized the room as one of the blood clinic. But this wasn’t of the Nightmare, no, he had been here in his Paris. He remembered it as only a few days before his revolution. Enjolras heard a sudden cry, and he turned to see his beloved Éponine Thénardier lying on a bed. Her pale skin looked nearly green in the dim candlelight, and she was caked in sweat that dampened her hair. He went to her and took his seat beside her. He grasped her hand and saw how dark the rings were under her eyes. Her lips matched the very color.

“Éponine?”

She merely gasped and wheezed, her eyes open only to the ceiling as if she hadn’t heard him, as if she didn’t know he was there. Her chest steadily rose and sunk until she shut her eyes, her chest now heaving rapidly.  A hard line formed at her brow, her face contorting, and she groaned out in pain.

“Éppie?” He began to panic as her groans became a screams.

It was then he saw the mound of her belly, swollen and pregnant with child. Blood coated her hospital gown and the linen of her bed sheets. It was not joy that overwhelmed him as it should to know that it was Éponine carrying and birthing his child. No, something was not right. She looked to be in a delirium, huffing and panting before screaming again. Was she sick? Was the baby? He couldn’t begin to question as a nurse came with rags, scissors, and a bucket of water. The doctor followed suit with a vial full of blood and before Enjolras could speak, the doctor silenced him.

“Monsieur, you are to leave immediately.”

“I cannot leave her, you cannot make me.” Enjolras protested, clasping her hand with both of his.

“If you do not leave we will not be able to treat her properly,” returned the nurse tersely.

Enjolras did not know how he had been pried from Éponine’s side, only to be carried off by two strong hands at his upper arms. He turned to see over his shoulder dear Éponine moaning, her head lolling to the side from exhaustion. She twisted and withered, her eyes closed to the world, to him. His heart broke as she called for him.

~

The blood clinic faded in his mind, his Éponine returning to him as a memory, and Enjolras now stood again within that ruins of the hall just before the little coffin. His limbs had gone numb, his throat dry, and his head throbbed. His fingers shook, so much so that even as he held them, the rest of his body shook in response. He hadn’t the fondest idea what to do now. His child lay at his feet, his lover in the garden mere steps away.

“Enjolras.”

Hearing the voice broke him. Tears streaked his cheeks, his voice choking in his throat, and slowly, he turned to see the Doll standing at the base of the stairs.

“The Dream and the Nightmare are unraveling,” she said.

He pulled himself away from the coffin and listened to the heavy steps he made as he walked down the steps to reach her.

“My child had died in her womb.” Enjolras mumbled, the words like acid on his tongue. “They pulled the baby from her, a little girl, and I didn’t even get to see her. I don’t know what they did with her tiny body. I don’t know…”

He stared into the dark eyes of the Doll who only looked back with pity.

“Ép-Éponine had lost too much blood. I let them administer the blood to her. I thought it would save her…” He trailed off, remembering the painful moment the blood doctor told him that his darling Éponine died. “They told me she was getting better, that she would live. But they would not let me see her, fearing her health would decline. I had to trust their words—I shouldn’t have! I should have gone to see her! My Éponine…”

The Doll touched his arm, an attempt at comfort. Enjolras glanced at the hand that touched him, staring at the porcelain fingers.

“I do not know if she would have survived without it, but I know now that the blood served only to seal her fate. This was the secret that I could not handle.” He said grimly, “I did not plunge the needle, but I had a hand in it regardless. This is why I was so eager to die at the barricade. And instead of dying I went mad.”

The Doll lifted her hand and placed her palm on his cheek, and Enjolras looked into her eyes as she did his. “You could not have been allowed to forget her. You succumbed to madness, but your mind would not allow you to forget.”

“So my mind more tortured me into remembering?” He replied cynically.

She dropped her hand. “Losing the memory her, of your friends, of the life you built, would mean you have lost yourself as well.”

Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes a moment before opening them again. “What am I to do now? Shall I wake?”

“The transfusion is nearly complete,” said the Doll. “I may not be her, not completely but long have I loved you, dear Enjolras. If you stay here, with me, I can love you as long as the night lasts. But I cannot make you forgot all that you have learned here. Or, if you so wish it, you can awaken and return to your Paris.”

Enjolras considered her words, allowing them to weigh heavily on his mind. And then he asked, “Will I live or die after I awaken?”

“That choice is yours,” she replied sullenly.

He glanced over at Éponine that had remained in the garden. In his Paris, she was dead and their child was dead. In the Musain, his friends lay dead as he knew they were in his Paris. There was nothing left for him there. He could live with his grief forever in this nightmare of a dream, and the Doll would be there with him as long as the night lasts. Perhaps that meant eternity. He did not know. It was tempting, the chance to live with her, perhaps forever, but she was not his Éponine and he could never replace her.

“Éponine—” Enjolras began but it was her smile that stilled his voice.

There was melancholy within the curl of her lips, in the gleam of her obsidian eyes. “I know, mon coeur. All my love cannot replace her nor the child or your friends. Though dearly I would love you, and though it saddens me to part from you, I am gladdened by your choice. You have endured so much, and the night must end.”

He could not bring himself to return a smile, feeling his heart break again. He was losing her again, his companion throughout the long night, and he did not know what to say for himself nor for her. He simply took her hand, brushing his fingers along her knuckles before raising her hand to his lips. He kissed it tenderly before looking into her eyes. He was ready, this time he was certain.

The Doll smiled at him again, staring into the blue of his eyes. She leaned in slowly, closing her eyes as she pressed her soft lips to his. Enjolras kissed her back, grazing his lips against hers, and he felt himself turn cold. His insides tingled, his mind dizzy, but neither he nor the Doll pulled away. Her kissed him lulled him to the dark until he could no longer feel her presence, her touch, and the world around him fell away to ashes.

In the dark, Enjolras felt at ease. The warmth of his blood was fading, his heartbeat slowing, and a soft voice was guiding him. He followed the voice, it growing louder as his body grew colder. The voice invited him, down his throat and through his limbs it overcame him like a song. In the briefest moment, he saw the woman who claimed the voice. Éponine, but he could not be sure if he spoke her name allowed. Light enveloped her, a light so warm and so gentle and so blissful it nearly blinded him. But he went to her still, reaching for her in the dark, growing colder and colder, but he fought it still until he reached her, touched her hand and the light faded to reveal her and infant in her arms.

~

“He’s dead,” said a man.

“It’s a shame.” The minister replied, “I thought for certain he would live. He seemed so eager for it. But then his body began to reject the transfusion.”

“Perhaps, in his unconscious, he could no longer fight death.”

“Or, perhaps,” the minister said thoughtfully, “he wanted it.”

“Will the undertaker come for him?”

The blood doctor nodded, pulling the thin white sheet over Enjolras’s face. “Perhaps they’ll bury him beside the woman and child. Mercy and a blessing, the poor soul,” he thought.

Daylight dusted the morning mist, kissing the newly sprouted headstones of the Paris graveyard. Flowers of red, white, and yellow lay upon the fresh earth, a greeting and a parting to those beneath. Roots settled beneath the earth, melding and twisting and scraping underneath, wrapping and cradling three coffins, and in the distance, bells sang out for all of Paris to hear. It was a dream and nothing more.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! I know it wasn't the happiest of stories, but it wasn't supposed to be. Come on, you all knew that right going into this right? Haha, thank you guys so much for reading and commenting. Thank you shadows-of-1832 for your loving support. I don't think I would have finished without your support. And viridescentlights, without you this story would not exist. Thank you so much brodo, love you lots!
> 
> Be on the lookout for my upcoming Enjonine story, a Victorian Gothic AU!


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